


To Share A Bottle

by AtomicPen, Dicheallach



Series: I will make it with you [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Atomic as Maretus, Dicheallach as Vanora, Drunken fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 14:28:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15843195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicheallach/pseuds/Dicheallach
Summary: Vanora and Maretus spend a little time letting loose, for once





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a series of tumblr rp over the last several years of Dragon Age OCs and their unfolding story. archived here for ease of reading and for the enjoyment of anyone who wants to read.
> 
> find Atomic's Maretus at [molioanimatra](http://molioanimatra.tumblr.com), and Dicheallach's Vanora at [vintyvanora](http://vintyvanora.tumblr.com)

**i.**

** |   “I was never good at doing what other people wanted.” **

“Well, no wonder you left the military. How you managed to make it so far if you weren’t good at following orders? A miracle, clearly.”

* * *

 

“You see my problem then,” he chuckles softly, the sound brief but still there all the same. “No, I was much worse in my youth, in many ways. Ah,” he adds, leaning across the table of the inn they sat at, his voice dropping to be somewhat conspiratorial now that he was significantly closer to her, “if you’d known me back then, you’d have a much different opinion of me.”

* * *

 

As Maretus leans forward, looking very much like he’s about to divulge some great secret, Vanora matches his movements, their heads nearly touching as he admits that he was indeed very different in his youth. Vanora barely stifles a smile, smirking instead. Maretus as a brazen young man in the military, not one for following orders. What a sight he would have been…in more ways than one.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you would have a very different opinion of me as well. But a decade is a long time, lots can change.”

* * *

 

He isn’t surprised she leans in with him, but how close she gets. He can smell the lavender drifting off from her, as well as the other medicinal herbs she works with, coupled with the faint scent of sweat from working all day in the healing tower, it makes for a heady combination to him in that instant. Her nearness and scent and the bitter beer he’s been drinking make the amusement brighter in his eyes and on his cheekbones.

“I’m not sure if we’re both lucky or not we didn’t meet back then. It’s amusing to wonder what might have been if things were different, but ultimately just a passing fantasy. I admit to missing a few things–including the easier dress code–but am mostly glad for the distance and time from then.”

* * *

 

Vanora wonders if his hair had been shorter then. She couldn’t remember many interactions with military men, and she certainly couldn’t call to mind the length of their hair. Everyone in the south seemed to keep their hair close cut, but in Tevinter there were men with hair that rivaled Vanora’s. Short or long his hair still would have been beautiful. One hand lifts to prop up her chin, Vanora finally smiling, trying to brush off the the idea that they would have had a very different relationship had they met beforehand.

“I don’t think we would be speaking like this had we met earlier. I don’t even suspect we would have crossed paths more than once or twice…you certainly wouldn’t have liked me then. But the Tevinter Legion, a more lax dress code than here? Ha! I don’t believe that, how could the Inquisition be stricter in their dress code? We don’t even have a formal army.”

She sighs wistfully, “I miss my dress code. I’m so tired of all these shapeless wool dresses. Practicality is all well and good, but do they have to be so… _ugly_?”

* * *

 

Her talk of the Inquisition having a _stricter_ dress code elicits a laugh from him. “Maker _no_ , it’s far too lax here, if you ask me. After I left the Legion one of the biggest difficulties I ran into was finding decent armor and clothing to wear. All the uniforms are provided to Legionnaires, including the dress uniforms, though we did have some say in those to a degree. Now those,” he adds, a smile tugging at his mouth at the memory, “were better than the Inquisitions uniforms by any mark of the imagination.”

At her wistful comment, he eyes her a bit, not for the first time wondering what her past was before the Inquisition. He wouldn’t ask her about it, though–if it is something she wishes to share with him, she will when she decides to. But he can’t help thinking about her in some of the fashions he remembers from back home, and deciding she would look rather stunning in some of them. Then again, he doesn’t find the dresses she wears now particularly unpleasing to begin with, but he is not a fashionista in any sense of the term.

“I don’t think the dresses are all that bad; simple, perhaps, but there is beauty to be found in simplicity. For what it’s worth I think you wear them… rather well. And,” he continues before he can think better of it, “you can always have something fancier. Just in case. You never know when you might have occasion to wear it.”

* * *

 

Having everything provided for you and then losing it all. That didn’t sound like an easy transition. At least she knew how to shop, where to go, what to look for. Even if it was the stalls she never would have glanced at. She can’t imagine him wandering around trying to figure things out; he was always so prepared, so put together and collected.

Maretus in a dress uniform–now that is something she can imagine vividly. The dress uniforms were what she was familiar with after all, and they were quite fetching.

“Mmm, I’m sure you wore the dress uniform well. I’ve seen a few of them in my time, and you looked quite handsome in one, I’m sure. You manage to look quite fetching in what you’ve collected over the years, so I can only imagine how much better you would look in full uniform.”

When he suggests that she wears the dresses well, that she could theoretically buy something a little nicer just in case, her smile brightens and she laughs. Maybe he’d forgotten what fashion was like in Tevinter, or maybe since he’d only known her as the healer he couldn’t imagine her any other way.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Maretus. But belts can only do so much. As for something nicer…I don’t know if I could bring myself to do it. All the things I want are blatantly inappropriate for someone of my rank. Even one of my simplest dresses at home would be too much.”

* * *

 

Her straightforward compliment does actually catch him off guard, and he is at a loss of words for a moment, his gaze caught on hers as he tries to find words to reply to her. The moment doesn’t last long, and he opens his mouth to say something, but then thinks better of it and drags his eyes away to the table, embarrassed.

“I–” Still, he fails to find words, but he tries again, again keenly reminded of their proximity. So he focuses instead not on her compliment–though the thought stretches across his mind that he _wishes_ she could have seen him in full dress uniform, the red one that was his favorite–but on her mention of the types of dresses she truly wants to wear. He clears his throat. “I’m only being truthful, not kind. I can only imagine how striking an ensemble you would wear back home, remembering the kinds of outfits I used to see. And… you will get to wear them again, I’m sure. Eventually.”

The thought that she knew where she wanted to be going strikes him–of course he knows she ultimately intends to retake her seat. She didn’t leave Tevinter like him, never intending to return, and he feels a pang of regret that he would probably never get to see her in her preferred fashion.

* * *

 

Tilting her head slightly to the side as he turns away, seemingly very interested in the table, Vanora stifles another laugh. It’s cute seeing him flustered and off balance. It’s probably the alcohol, on both their parts, making this conversation so…unguarded. He seems off in his own thoughts for a moment which allows Vanora to study his face, his eyes focused elsewhere. It’s interesting watching him think, lost in his own thoughts, but the moment he looks up again she’s finished her observations.

_Eventually_. There’s something about the tone of his voice that reminds her when she does go back it won’t be with him. The smile on her lips fades slight, still present but no longer bright and amused. She’ll have to leave him behind when all this is done, and it makes her chest constrict just thinking about it. Instead of lingering on the thought she brightens up her smile.

“Not too soon. If I leave you alone too long you’ll end up getting another “cut” and bleeding to death. Can’t have that. Not under my watch. Anyway, who would I talk to and eat with every day? It would be very lonely indeed.”

* * *

 

Perhaps it is the beer–is it his second or third? He suddenly can’t recall–but a notion to follow down a strange line of thought grips him. Her smile brightens again and along with her words, reach down into his chest and shake something tender there loose.

“It’s true,” he agrees. “I have a bad habit of underplaying wounds, and I fear I may not make it through one day without you.” A chuckle winds its way past his own smile. “Perhaps some providence will smile on me for once and we can share a _properly_ spiced meal back home together.”

Once the thought takes hold, it doesn’t want to let go. What if there was a way for them to both be in Tevinter again? He’s always missed the land of his birth, but didn’t expect to want to go _back_ quite so keenly as he now did. He grudgingly admits that he’s grown far too used to Vanora’s company, the regular meals they share, and… he would be lonely, too, without her. It is uncanny to think that a single other person made such an impact on his daily routine and life that he can feel the hurt of her loss before she’s even left.

“Wouldn’t that be nice? You can wear whatever fancy attire you desire to, and perhaps I could be in something similar to a dress uniform. Settle down to a nice four-course meal with some _real_ drinks and not this bitter beer the southerners have…” He trails off, realizing he’s just fantasizing at this point and wanting to stop before he makes a fool of himself, but also not wanting to stop. It was… pleasant to think about.

* * *

 

Maretus was joking of course. He’d made it on his own ten years and was still very much alive. But the idea that he might actually need her makes her illogically happy. He would be fine on his own as he was before…but for now it is good to feel useful, to feel wanted. When his thoughts take a different turn, wondering about what it would be like to both be back home, Vanora’s heart flutters. In whatever world they imagined he would be able to go home without fear of repercussion. He would be _free_ and it makes her smile widen, the edges of her eyes crinkling from the movement.

“It would be heaven.”

She sighs dramatically, gazing off into the distance for a moment before turning her attention back to Maretus.

"Being home with my own clothes clothes, good food, good drink, and the best company in all of Thedas. Could there be anything better? I think my skills at hosting dinners may be rusty, but I’m sure you wouldn’t mind letting me practice on you.”

For a moment she realizes how inappropriate that sounds taken out of context, but the awful beer has done its work and she finds that she isn’t particularly concerned about her choice of words. Instead of ruminating on it she lifts her free hand and taps the tip of his nose.

“ _And_ I wouldn’t have to worry about you getting killed on the way back home from some infection or injury. I would be quite happy and content.”

* * *

 

Surely it was the alcohol making such a warmth spread through the breadth of his chest, making his stomach feel so much lighter. But his head feels giddy the moment she says the word _heaven_ and he wonders if she knows it made his heart skip a beat and his breath catch in his throat.

Of course she was referring to getting back home amid all the things she’s been without for so long. All the luxuries a healer wasn’t afforded, but an _altus_ was. Things he finds he likes imagining her in–soft silks and golden jewelry–and because he is less guarded even in his own mind from the beers, he doesn’t press the thought immediately away, trying to picture what a dinner with her back in a formal estate would be like. “I don’t mind. It’s only fair, after all. I practiced my _terribly_ rusty dancing skills on you. I can manage through some rusty dinner skills while you prepare for this ‘best company in all of Thedas' to arrive.”

The touch surprises him again, even though he sees her hand lift and move toward his face–for an instant he thinks she is going to do something else, touch his cheek, brush against his beard, something–but blinks when it turns out to be his nose.

“I, too, would be perfectly happy and content. With not getting killed or overtaken by infection or injury.” A pause. “And with your company.”

* * *

 

All this makes her feel like a little girl again, eagerly awaiting something, the anticipation making her fidget because she just can’t wait. She has better control now, and it’s not so extreme a feeling, but she wonders what exactly is at the root of it. Dreaming of home isn’t the whole of it; home makes her happy, excited, but not like this. Maybe it’s the alcohol…or maybe it’s Maretus,the idea of him being around indefinitely no matter where they might end up. Does it really matter? 

“Hopefully my skills aren’t _too_ rusty,” she says wrinkling her nose, “at least you won’t have to worry about me stepping on your toes. As for the company…”

Her hand lifts up to his face again, fingers lightly gripping his jaw through his beard. She narrows her eyes, using her hand on his jaw to turn his face away and then back, pretending to examine him with a serious look on her face.

“Yes, it seems my assessment was correct. You are indeed the best company in all of Thedas.”

The serious facade slips as her smile returns, “But I’m glad to know that I’m not half bad company either. Imagine if you didn’t like my company; what a return trip _that_ would be!”

* * *

 

“I have no doubt about your skill–” he begins, but she interrupts him by grasping his jaw and shifting his face from side to side, studying him. He holds his breath, only aware that he is doing so after he started, and hopes to the Maker she can’t feel the beat of his heart in his throat just below her fingers. Heat flushes into his cheeks, and he’s glad he doesn’t have pale skin that it’d show. Then again, they were probably already flushed some from the alcohol.

“You are probably among the few that would accuse me of such a thing,” he says when she’s smiling again, the serious facade fallen. “If I didn’t care for your company, do you think I’d come and sit with you every evening for dinner?” He reaches up intending to pat her hand, still against his jaw, companionably, but instead of patting it just falls over hers, resting there.

For an instant he enjoys it, the pleasant feel of her smooth hands beneath his warm calluses, but then he realizes he’s a small step removed from holding her hand outright, and drops his to the table. Clearing his throat again, unnecessarily, he sits back out of her reach, reaching for his mug of beer not to pick up, but just for something to do with his hands.

“It would be a pleasant trip, I’m sure,” he finishes lamely, unsure if he feels more awkward because he’s suddenly made their conversation so, or because he enjoyed the feel of her hand on his face more than he feel he ought, or because he wanted to feel her hands more.

* * *

 

When his hand touches hers something flutters in her stomach. It’s warm and the callouses rub pleasantly over her skin and she wonders if this is the first time they’ve touched that isn’t out of practicality but just…because. Of course the moment breaks when they realize just how close they are, Maretus dropping his hand from hers, and Vanora dropping her own, shifting back in her seat.

They’re no longer face to face within breathing distance of one another, and so Vanora leans back in her seat for a moment, stretching her arms back over the chair. It’s been a long day and the alcohol is definitely hitting her harder than she’d expected. No doubt it was because of her lack of food in her stomach. Tipping her head to the side when Maretus finally speaks up she nods in agreement.

“You’d keep me from freezing to death or getting killed, and I’d provide my meager talents and keep us from dying from wounds. Quite convenient traveling with someone you like, no? At least we wouldn’t have to worry about awkward silences on the road.”

* * *

 

It’s somewhat comforting that she shifts back and drops her own hand at nearly the same time he does, indicating she feels at least somewhat the same. He hopes he didn’t make her uncomfortable with his touch, but a small voice inside him doesn’t think he did.

“The convenience lies more with you, I think. A constant, dedicated and experienced healer to stitch me up? I will happily have you as a traveling companion.” He smiles a bit. “Though, I suppose it is a good trade-off. I’ll kill whatever threatens you, and you patch me up from the killing. We’d made a good team.”

And as soon as those words are out of his mouth, he simultaneously likes them and is made nervous by them. He was only talking about traveling with her, wasn’t he? Did he mean more? He spoke wistfully about traveling back to Tevinter with her, having dinner with her, and he wasn’t implying a single instance when he said it, and now it makes him wonder. He doesn’t like the idea of them parting ways eventually, not at all. It twists unpleasantly in the depths of his gut and he has to take a drink of beer to quell it. No, he… he doesn’t want her to leave, to not be a regular person in his life.

But it is all wishful thinking; she would eventually go back to her life in Tevinter, and he could never go back and live. It is a sobering thought, but one he keeps to himself for now, hiding the downturn of his mouth by drinking more beer.

* * *

 

“I don’t know, Maretus. You still seem like the more helpful between us. After all, I did nothing but get us in trouble when we went for our little trip down the mountain. Didn’t even have to patch you up after you saved me. Twice.”

Tapping a finger against her lower lip she furrows her brows in thought. Really, he was the more practical and useful of the two. Sure, healing was all well and good, and it was a convenient way to make a bit of coin on the road, but it wasn’t going to save her in a fight. Granted…she didn’t really _need_ saving now that he knew she was a mage. Hell, she’d probably thank some bandits for letting her blow off some pent up steam.

“What’s the first thing you would do when you go back home? And the first meal, what would you pick? I think anything from home could easily beat the food here. Though, oddly enough, I think I’ll miss the stew.”

She doesn’t leave room for ‘what ifs’ because they’re no fun. Tonight there will be no question of practicality or likelihood of things happening this way. Vanora just wants to daydream a while and imagine the best case scenario. They would travel together, one last adventure on the road, and then could settle back into life in Tevinter. They could still have dinners together whenever they wanted, just as they did here. Granted the dinner would be of higher quality, and the setting wouldn’t be so noisy, but they would still have that time to sit and relax.

* * *

 

Her good mood refused to let him wallow in a darker one that his thoughts were trying to lead him toward, so he let go of it and let her pick his mood up with hers. The alcohol made him smile wider than usual, opened his face up more than he usually kept it.

“I think we can both agree we’d be equally useful on the road to one another,” he says teasingly admonishing her. “I blame most of the trouble on _that_ particular trip on the wildcats, so unless you had some mint on you…”

Though he knows he shouldn’t, his eyes follow her finger to her lower lip, her mouth in general, watching it form words with a sudden fascination before her question reaches him.

“Hmm.” The sound comes out more a rumble than a pondering sort of word, echoing up from his chest and around the warmth of the beer in his throat. Everything felt warm now, his chest from her sentiments, his hand from hers, his mouth from the alcohol. “I think… briani with mutton would be what I’d want–with plenty of heat to it. It was always one of my favorites. And it’s been years since I had sweetbread with figs and dates.” He laughs quietly. “I’m sure that seems boring and plebeian to the meals you were used to.”

He lets himself slip further into the fantasy she weaved for them, thinking how nice it would be to sit in one layer of clothing, out on a veranda with the warm night breeze shifting the air about them. Maretus likes the idea of a source of water nearby, a fountain or maintained pond and stream, and a sweet cool drink instead of this southern beer before him here.

“What is your home like, Vanora? Tell me of the walls you grew up in.”

* * *

 

"Very well,” she says dropping her finger from her mouth to smile at him, “we shall agree that we are equally useful traveling companions.”

Her smile is languid as she leans back in her chair, watching him turn over the thought of food. It seems to brighten him up, to pull him back to their visions of a future where they could both go home. Of course he’d want something spicy, and Tevinter comfort food to boot. It is the sweetbread that she agrees with most wholeheartedly though–the sweets in Ferelden were lacking, though Orlais had an impressive spread.

“I _did_ just say I would miss stew. What does it matter what sort of food you like? Sweetbread and figs will be a welcome addition to my diet. I miss fruit and sweets.”

It’s not hard to draw up an image of a lavish welcoming dinner with every dish she could possibly want prepared. Fresh fruit, well seasoned dishes, sweets, and good quality alcohol abound. When he asks about her home she hesitates for a moment, weighing how much she can say without feeling uncomfortable or haughty. But she is in a good mood and the thought is brushed off.

"Mmm, well it is an impressive estate to be sure. But some of my favorite aspects of it were the library and the gardens. The library at home is massive, there are books from all around the world on every topic you could dream up. Generations have added to it along the way. And the gardens, oh, how I miss them.”

She shifts in her chair, propping her chin up in her hand again as she smiles wistfully, locking eyes with Maretus.

"The gardens are built dead center to the main house, so it is boxed in by the house. Both floors are open to it, with large balconies on the second floor and big open archways on the first floor. There’s a large reflecting pool in the center, and all around it are flowers and plants. When I was little I tried to learn all their names, a hobby I picked up in my free time. But my schooling took up all my time as I grew up…I never did learn all their names…I’ll have to do it when I get back.”

Tipping her head so she’s looking up at him her smile brightens.

"Just wait, you’ll see the gardens and be able to judge for yourself whether it’s worth of the praise. But what of you? What was it like in the Legion? Before the Legion?”

* * *

 

“Fair enough,” he agrees when she mentions the stew. “I have to agree that the stew here is good enough to miss after a while.” A sigh leaves him, both wistful and a little sad. “And yes–I keenly miss fresh fruits and nuts. I’d have them every morning for breakfast still in the Legion–one of the perks of a higher position.”

As she talks about her favorite spots, his eyes brighten at the prospect of so large and dedicated a library. “I’ve been in a few altus estates in my time, though none of them boasted of such a collection as the one you describe. Had I grown up there, it would have been difficult to tear me away from such a place. Did you spend much time there growing up?” He remembers the small shelves of books in her room, the varied collection of titles that spanned several interests. An influence, surely, from this library she spoke of from her home.

He closes his eyes for a moment while she describes the gardens, trying to picture the layout and spread in his mind to match her words. “It sounds magnificent,” he breathes when she finishes, opening his eyes to catch hers again. “I would greatly like to be able to judge them for myself.”

“As for the Legion?” He leans back a bit in his chair, the leather of his jerkin creaking as he tries to find a comfortable position. “It changed, of course, as I rose in the ranks. Sleeping in a tent in one of the camps, to sleeping in the officer’s barracks, to having adjoining quarters in the Perivantium headquarters building to the Legator Legarem, and finally taking over the official suite of the Legator Legarem. Of course, the last was the most luxurious–a balcony, private _large_ bathing room, a solar–with several bookcases,” he adds with a smile and a nod to her. “Nothing like you described, but there were several volumes left behind by previous Legator’s, and I added at least one bookcase’s worth of my own. Probably still there,” he muses.

“Nothing extravagant, even the Legator’s suites, compared to an altus’ House, but it was comfortable. No pools and gardens, though, I did have an exquisite redwood desk, large as this table,” here he makes a sweeping motion with his hand to encompass the table they occupied, “and always full of reports that needed my attention,” he concludes wryly.

* * *

 

The fear that he might find the excesses of her home somehow offensive or distasteful soon disappears. He perks up, immediately interested in her description of the library. She could see him spending too much time there, tucked away in one of the reading nooks or out on the balcony reading in the sunlight. It was easy to lose track of the day when there was something enthralling to read.

"Did I spend much time there? _Hah_! Dear, I spent more time there than anywhere else. Well, _almost_. There were other things to learn beyond the books. But if I wasn’t studying with a tutor, going to some event or practicing my magic I was there. Studying more or reading something fantastical.”

There had been parts of her life where she hadn’t been working herself to the bone of her own accord. She can remember several lazy days spent curled up on a chaise reading something fictional, based in another world or books of myths. Despite how far they are from home Vanora perks up. She genuinely does want him to see the gardens and the library. The rest of the estate as well, of course, but it would be so satisfying to have told him about her two favorite places and then share them with him in the flesh, not just in memories.

Her gaze fixes on Maretus when he begins talking about what his life had been like. Not as glamorous of course, but she appreciates, and almost envies, his description of moving up. The physical changes in something as simple as accommodations reflecting that he’d worked hard to get to where he was. She smiles, imagining something grander than his rooms here, a comfortable place to relax after a long day…and fill out reports. At this she laughs, imagining him sitting at some beautiful desk in uniform and trudging through a mountain of papers.

"Ah, the perks of being in a position of prominence. They’ll give you nice rooms with a beautiful desk and fancy dress uniforms…but you’ll still have a pile of paperwork to handle day in and day out. There are worse ways in the world to spend your time. You haven’t truly suffered tedium until you’ve sat through one of my etiquette classes. How anyone could spend a month learning about table settings and proper eating and drinking is beyond me. At least your work meant something.”

Another question comes to her as she rambles about etiquette lessons.

“What was it like being a soldier? I expect it involved more than swinging a sword in a practice yard. Much more emphasis on… _perfection_ , hm?”

* * *

 

Just as she is imagining him in her library, so is he imaging her there, though he doesn’t have the benefit of knowing what it looks like. But he liked the idea of her surrounded by books, all smelling of lavender, lounging on some cushioned seat with a pile of books on the floor next to her. And he would like to be there with her, in some long comfortable tunic and walking along the shelves until a title catches his eye, then joining her and reclining and reading together.

“We are two of a kind, then–or would be, had I a giant library to lose myself in.”

Her laughter makes the smile widen across his face, the reaction very obviously one of someone who has encountered the same sort of mundane responsibilities frequently in her life.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t mind all the reports? They’re tedious, of course, and depending on the matter copies upon copies that all needed to be the exact same, but… I always prided myself in being thorough and consistent.” Her mention of etiquette classes makes him bring a hand to his face, leaning forward now so his cheek is cupped against his hand and his elbow braced against the tabletop.

“Oh–etiquette classes. No, we had those, too. _Especially_ once the ranks were higher; can’t have the newly up and coming Preimus Espartum not knowing which fork to use for which dish. That was my first experience with a dinner of state, as Preimus Espartum, which is the highest ranking commanding officer within the Legion, and also where I was promoted to Axivor Legarem, which is really just a fancy way of saying the Legator’s assistant.” He chuckles, closing his eyes at the memory for a moment. When he opens them again, he focuses on her face. “Nothing like your etiquette, I imagine, which must have been much more involved, but we had it all the same.”

When she asks about life as a soldier, there is a slight pang of remorse in him, but it is quickly banished. “Oh–much more. For starters, we practiced not only with swords, but short swords and daggers, bows, staves, polearms. All the weapons you imagine when you close your eyes and think of a standard regiment of the Legion? We all trained with all of those. There’s an emphasis on _group_ _mentality_. Know and love whoever was standing next to you in formation, which could be anyone within your regiment. Early on, there are young boys marked by their Descata–their camp commanders–as showing promise, and that goes up the line as they age through their superiors until they reach an age to start moving up in rank themselves. Some of the Legionnaires that comes from wealthier and more prominent backgrounds get a quick rise in the ranks, but it’s usually to overall detriment, in my opinion,” he adds, something of a frown turning his mouth at the thought. “It’s not that most of the officers and commanders were _bribed_ , but just how the system worked if you had money and weight behind your House or family name.”

He smirks now, a delighted motion and a proud one. “Oh, I rankled any number of people and ruffled countless feathers when I rose so quickly despite being _soporati_. When I was eighteen I jumped nearly three ranks in the calendar year–started as an Aide to one of the Commanding Officers within the Perivantium, then after a few months was promoted to Preimus Espartum myself, and then right after I turned nineteen, they held a special ceremony and dinner to promote me to Axivor, with the intent of taking over for Rielius, the aging Legator at the time.”

He stops here, focusing his eyes back on her and no more in memory, feeling suddenly self-conscious, talking about himself so much. “But ah, listen to me ramble–this happens when you ask a soldier about his past, you know. You always get more than you bargain for. But what about you? What… what is it like being a mage? Growing up one? I can’t… for the longest time I disliked magic, and all it represented, but now I find myself… curious about it.” Nevermind that it was mainly her doing and their connection with one another that managed to ease him away from fear and hate when it came to both mages and, to a somewhat lesser degree, altus.

* * *

 

“I suppose that makes sense, taking pride in your work. And I imagine it was a nice break from all that training. Or a good way to hide from lessons on forks and knives. I never actually thought about the importance of etiquette for someone in your position…I can count on one hand the number of events where I’ve eaten with military men. Even then I wasn’t exactly watching their manners.”

She chuckles as she tries to conjure up an image of Maretus sitting at a fully set table being taught which utensil was for what, when you used it, how to hold it, _ad nauseum_. It’s certainly an entertaining mental image. Useful for large fancy state parties, but not exactly required for day to day life.

It’s fascinating to listen to him talk, explaining what life was like in a world completely different from her own. She tries to picture it, drawing from what she’s seen him do with the soldiers here and amplifying it. Standard garb, everyone moving together. It must be beautiful to watch, all those men moving in synch as though they were one entity. There were people of her class who had doubtless seen such exercises while talking with high up military officers, those families who were more involved with military matters. As the daughter of an obscenely wealthy socialite and a wealthy, successful businessman and politician, she wasn’t exactly in a place where watching soldiers drill made sense. Vanora isn’t sure if his view is slightly romanticized after a decade away, but beyond the hours of drilling it doesn’t sound like a bad place to be.

When she hears that the issue of family name influenced military titles she isn’t surprised, but that doesn’t mean she likes it. A name doesn’t make you a better soldier or a better commander. It’s more dangerous in the military than in politics. You don’t have lives in your hands dependent on your ability to lead and command. But hearing that Maretus had jumped so far up in the ranks makes her smile. She could see the looks of barely masked irritation and disgust on the faces of those who deemed a soporati unworthy of such a lofty position.

“Oh what I would have done to see the looks on their faces when you rose so high. All the pouting boys with fancy names who thought they could shoot straight to the top overshadowed by a young soporati with more talent than they could muster if they put themselves together and doubled their skills. There’s no need to apologize, it’s easy to wax poetic about the past. I’m not asking because I want a two sentence summary.”

Of course she can’t escape him asking about being a mage. They were both branded and defined by their roles–he as Legator Legarem, and she as a mage and altus. It was how the world worked. With all the corruption in Tevinter it isn’t surprising he distrusted magic and her entire class. They distrusted one another just as much. Except they usually weren’t worried about getting set on fire at a society function.

“Well, it was perhaps a bit different for me than other people. My magic manifested when I was very young, three in fact. My parents pulled away from me and hired a litany of tutors, both for schooling and for practicing my magic. If I wasn’t at a society function or doing the basic necessities of life I was studying, practicing, working. That’s what I was supposed to be, the perfect version of myself. Flawless sociopolitical talent, charming, cunning, powerful, refined–all of it. Looking back I think part of the reason I worked so hard was because I thought my parents didn’t love me, _wouldn’t_ love me, until I met their expectations…”

She trails off then, the idea never having struck her. Granted, she’d worked herself to the bone willingly, and she enjoyed the pay off, the tangibility of her success, but it hadn’t occurred to her that part of it was done in the hopes that the affection of her parents would return in a more physical form. The expectations placed upon her were so severe that nobody could truly live up to them, but she had done the best she could. Better than most her age. Their expectations were hers, had embedded within her a constant drive to be better, to succeed in whatever task she set herself to.

"Anyway, I was, again, extremely young when I was accepted to the Circle of Minrathos. They technically accepted my when I was 6, but for some reason they felt 7 was a more appropriate age. So I spent the rest of my life there, minus trips home and vacations. More studying, more practicing, more politics. Probably just what you’d expect from an altus. Well, more work than most. I never liked to rely on my family name. A name is all well and good, but if you can’t put your money where your mouth is then you shouldn’t get to rise up for nothing. Just like the issue of men in the military with important names. Doesn’t make them good commanders.”

* * *

 

“Pride in one’s work, it’s own reward.” He nods a bit. “I enjoyed the training–the physical strain of it, the endurance, the striving toward better and better technique… all part of it. I try to take pride in any job or duty I must do. It helped, for a bit, when the duties and jobs were… less than pleasant.”

As a pause, he lifts his head from his hand, make a dismissive waving motion with his fingers. “But that’s not what we’re talking about here.”

To her admission she was unfamiliar with etiquette learning in the military he rests his cheek back on his hand. “It’s no surprise you weren’t–but I assure you, there are plenty of people who were paying utmost attention to us, especially the Commanding Officers, and even more especially the ones under consideration for promotion.” A sudden thought comes to him, wondering if perhaps he had ever seen her before, back home, before either of them left. He feels now that he would have definitely remembered if he’d met her, but he can never be sure. Back then he very pointedly tried not to let any of the altus faces or names stick in his mind, and wanted nothing to do with them if he could help it. He knows her House is not one of the ones very involved with the Legion, however, so he doesn’t think they would have met at any point.

He taps a finger against the side of his face from the hand cushioning his cheek, though at her expressed wish to have seen his fellow altus soldiers’ faces, the smirk on his face turns wicked.

“Oh, it was a sight to see, I assure you. The way they smirked at one another when my name was called out of the ranks for that first promotion, thinking that was as far as I went, only to grow angrier and angrier as I rose. I think for a few months I genuinely feared for my life–thought one of them would be so upset they’d come to zap me in my quarters.”

The fact that she actually _wanted_ to hear about his past, that she genuinely seemed interested and not bored by the jargon, which he tried his best to avoid, but it was difficult sometimes not to slip back into it even after so many years, surprised and delighted him both. And in truth, Maretus is genuinely interested to hear her speak of her past, as well.

The amusement on his face fades, however, as she talks, though it does not vanish entirely. To think of her as a gifted child–he’s never seen her actually use her magic before, so he has no idea how powerful or talented she really is, but he can believe it if her other skills are any measure–pushed like that… Maretus may have been in the Legion all his life, and only soporati, but he does know Tevinter society and what is expected of the upper echelons. Particularly the skilled ones. As she goes in, describing how she spent nearly the whole of her life in some sort of study or practice, it reminds him not a little of his own. Each expected to go above and beyond for what they were groomed for, each devoting large chunks of their life to that end. Is it any wonder they both were now years and thousands of leagues away from it all?

An angry coal settles in his chest, listening to her speak of how she was young and already practicing, already being tested for her skills and knowledge, pushed harder and harder. It is a refrain he knows well himself, in a different sphere, but to hear her speak of it makes him angry inside for her, for all the children who went through the same as she did. For the first time it becomes startlingly clear to him that despite how it seemed on the surface, no altus truly had an easy life; it was just made of different trials and tribulations.

“It must have been a difficult time,” he says, voice subdued and soft after she’s spoken. “Of course not for basic wants, but to start such strictness at such a young age… Our home is not for the faint of heart or those who lack in spirit, is it?”

* * *

 

As she speaks the amusement of recalling how his peers had looked as he rose in rank starts to fade from Maretus’ eyes. She doesn’t understand why. Maretus had worked all his life as well. It just so happened that his physical exertions weren’t of the magical sort. And, of course, he wasn’t stuck with the joys of high society and what that entailed. It all seems so mundane to her, so basic, but perhaps it doesn’t seem so to other people. Even she has to admit that, when voiced, her childhood sounds rather unpleasant. Perhaps it was. It had certainly lacked the carefree happiness that was so closely associated with childhood.

No, she had spent her whole life working. Not all at once mind, but the work load increased the older she got. It was only fitting. A three year old was hardly able to grasp the ideas of social graces and history. Learning not to zap someone, most often herself, when she was upset was much more practical. That hadn’t stopped her from ‘accidentally’ toppling a glass or two when she was trying to get her way. It seems she has unwittingly quieted the mood. Was it really so surprising to Maretus that she had worked so hard? She’d gone above and beyond to be sure, but the best of her class, regardless of name, didn’t become so by being lazy and overindulging.

“No, it most certainly is not. For all their talk of The Great Game I would be very interested to see how an Orlesian noble faired in Tevinter. I think it would be a source of great entertainment.”

Vanora shifts again, uncrossing her ankles and shifting back in her seat again in an attempt to get comfortable. The mellow conversation bodes ill for the continuation of the good mood, and so Vanora quickly returns to something happier.

"You look as though I’ve told you my parents chained and beat me, Maretus. So here, we shall talk of something else. When I was a baby one of the slaves in our household had two children. Felix was three, and Julia was a few months older than I was. We grew up together, always running around the gardens and laughing. They were more my family than my parents, and they always knew just what to do to make the day brighter.”

Tilting her head to the side she wonders how the two of them are. A decade is a long time. Her parents wouldn’t have sold them off. They were much beloved by everyone, good and loyal to boot.

“Did you have lots of friends in the Legion? You said it was a group mentality, that you were supposed to love the soldiers next to you. An ideal surely, not everyone can get along so well. Or were you always so serious, scaring away the other kids with that stern brow?”

Her lips curl into a smile then, an indication that she’s only teasing. He always looks so serious, the moments when he smiles fleeting, thus making them particularly precious to Vanora. She covets those moments when his guard drops, when he laughs or smiles, and she wonders if it might be the same for him. Neither of them are particularly open with their emotions.

* * *

 

Her sudden wresting of the conversation away from him and back toward more pleasant topics takes him by mild surprise, and he hesitates a moment after her question, then laughs. It’s a deep sound, not loud, but warm all the same. His eyes lock with hers again as it fades, an unguarded affection directed toward her all at once clear in his look.

“You _are_ determined to keep me from seriousness tonight,” he accuses her, though his tone is anything but angry. “Very well, if it pleases you, I will do my best to be amicable for you.” He gives her a little quasi-bow still sitting in his chair.

Taking another drink from his beer before he answers her to wet his throat, Maretus’ eyebrows lift a bit as she tells him of her childhood friends. “It’s difficult to imagine you running amuck through an estate causing trouble, but perhaps I can try in light of the mood.” And he smiles at her as well, not quite mirroring the curl of her mouth, but perhaps a little in his own fashion. It feels as though this is a much-needed evening for them both, setting the weighty things that they’ve been through aside and being more amicable than perhaps either of them would be with anyone else. Certainly him, at any rate.

Her question makes him think of that–she is the closest person to him in the Inquisition, and possibly even the closest person since he left Tevinter. He never allowed himself to stay in one place for very long, never long enough to make any sort of serious attachment to anyone. There had perhaps been one other person would could have… but they were an employer, and he made certain not to think that way.

“There were a few people I was close to at different points, sure. I’ve never been one for large circles of friends.” The look he gives her is pointed, and his tone suddenly droll. “Surprising, I know.” But then he continues and his voice smooths back out. “Otho was one of my closest friends, though. Kept up with me for a little while in promotions, but then when I outpaced him just became a solid sounding board when I got frustrated, and was the only other person who was as comfortable just having silence without the need to talk all the time.” Of course, he means her, but he doesn’t think to explain himself, it’s so evident in his mind. He made certain not to mention anything to Otho before he left, not even when it was just an outrageous idea in his mind, so that even the more conspiratorial officer wouldn’t be able to tie him into Maretus’ desertion in any way.

One corner of his mouth is tugged upward, remembering. “He was always trying to get me to do something that would defy regulation for a laugh. Joke’s on him, though, because I probably outdid any of his plans in the end.” But he isn’t being sober about it–in fact, he isn’t feeling very sober at all anymore–and chuckles at what he’s said before focusing on her face once more. It was a very pleasant face to focus on, decides, and a faint smile perches on his lips, studying her a moment before speaking again.

“Between your strict regimen of studies and politicking, tell me, did you ever wreak havoc for your tutors or caretakers with Felix and Julia?”

* * *

 

_Amicable_. The word nearly makes her laugh, instead brightening her smile as she rolls her eyes. It wasn’t that he wasn’t amicable, just that it was always masked by his seriousness. It was true for the both of them. They’re friendly with one another and perfectly content to be in quiet peace. But so often they’re busy with work, buried beneath the mundane day to day tasks. It is good to see him smile, the way it crinkles the skin around his eyes and brightens up his whole face. Somehow she would find a way to make him smile like that, preferably without having to get him drunk.

Glancing over to her own tankard she realizes that there’s still beer left in there. She can’t drink it nearly as quickly as Maretus, mostly due to the fact that she finds it vile. What she wouldn’t give for some wine from home. Even the cheap stuff would beat this awful beer. Vanora didn’t like beer to begin with, and she likes it even less here. But it’s doing it’s job. As Maretus explains his friendship with Ortho, shutting down Vanora’s snarky comment about having a small group of friends before she can even say it, Vanora reaches for her tankard. She pouts for a moment, pretending to be upset that he’s prevented her from teasing him, but it quickly fades as she takes another sip of her beer.

“I’m glad to hear that comfortable silence as a key element of friendship isn’t something new. Some things never change, eh?”

It does make her feel good, though, knowing that companionable silence is something he’s appreciated all his life. Not surprising in the least bit given his temperament, but good to know nonetheless. When he laughs she watches him, eyes following the motion of his mouth, the shift in his expression as he does so, and she smiles.

“I find it very hard to imagine you getting into any sort of trouble…beyond your challenges following orders. Did that ever get you into trouble? Some argument with a commanding officer of some sort?”

She’s in the middle of taking another sip when he asks about Felix and Julia. Finishing it and setting her tankard down she shakes her head, a wistful look in her eyes as she smirks.

"It was always Felix starting trouble. He always an endless supply of energy. Julia was quiet and reserved, I was too busy studying, but he would find any way he could to get us out and into some sort of mess.”

"There was one time, I couldn’t have been older than five, when he decided that we should go into the kitchen and sneak some of the sweets. Not a particularly daring plot–what did the cooks care if I went in for sweets? What he neglected to mention was that the sweets we took were for the very fancy dinner party my parents were throwing. Of course I took all the blame. Nobody ever believed me when I said it was my idea, it was always Felix, but if I said it was me what could they do? Hit me? Make me study even harder? But I don’t think we ever did anything _that_ bad. I liked my studies, so there wasn’t reason to cause any trouble there.”


	2. Chapter 2

**ii.**

Her comment about the necessity of comfortable silence makes him nod a bit, face falling more serious than it had been for several minutes. “I can suffer being around those who must fill every waking moment with chatter, but I’d much rather not and usually don’t. That is one of the things I like best with what we have.”

The words are out of his mouth before he thinks better of them, and in truth, he doesn’t think much of them after they’ve left. They certainly had something, after all, his alcohol-fuzzed mind reasoned. If they didn’t have something they wouldn’t be sitting here, teasing each other and reminiscing about times he once tried desperately to leave behind. What that something is, is another matter entirely and one far to convoluted and complicated for him to think about now. So he doesn’t, and just lets himself enjoy this with her.

“Well, I didn’t usually go for the type of pranks Otho wanted to do, but you are right. It was always a precarious thing, arguing with one’s superiors, but some of the things they said or wanted…” He shakes his head, mouth bunching up on one side. “I have no problem following orders so long as those orders _make_ _sense_. But, as we’ve pointed out before, in Tevinter sometimes all you need is the right name and the right amount to become something you don’t deserve or can’t actually handle.”

Her story makes him chuckle again, dark brows lifting beneath the curls of his hair that had fallen over them. “You? Stealing sweets? What an image that conjures. Tell me, do you have much of a sweet tooth still, or are those days left back with Felix and the dinner parties of your parents?” It feels good to be teasing her, something he is warming up to. Usually he keeps his comments to himself–he is certainly not naïve or not quick-witted enough for them to flit through his mind, but it’s not exactly in his nature to say such things. But he is comfortable with her. In silence, as she pointed out was so important to him, and in conversation, and that is certainly showing by his comments here. He likes the reactions he gets from her when he teases her.

Maretus watches her take a sip from her tankard and tried to do some calculations in his head. He’d had two–no three so far. She must be getting close to finishing hers. Knowing that she doesn’t care for the beer, an idea comes tumbling out his mouth almost as soon as he thinks of it.

“I think they _do_ have other things here than the beer. You’re very nice to suffer through it with me, but it’s not necessary. I’ll go get you another–” He stands as he talks, but once he’s fully upright the world _tilts_ severely, and he feels himself trying to follow along and make it right with no conscious command for his body to do so, and somehow the chair legs get all tangled with his foot and he stumbles forward, reaching out to try and catch himself on the table.

* * *

 

_What_ _we_ _have_. The phrase makes her stomach flutter illogically–of course they had something. Weren’t they friends? Maybe closer…the best of friends? They’d certainly been through hell together, why shouldn’t they be close? The alcohol has done enough to let her mind wander, and she wonders what it would be like if they were more than friends. She lets herself imagine it for the briefest of moments, fingers laced together while they walked, curling up together in the library where it was quiet, before focusing back on the present, a silly smile on her face.

“I’m imagining one of the stuck up snots I grew up with throwing a fit and commanding you to go scare someone he wanted to leave him alone. Ridiculous, but I don’t think I would be completely shocked to hear something akin to it happened.”

He’s _teasing_ her, brows lifting up high enough that the bits of his hair that have fallen forward cover them. She wants to reach over and smooth them back, but there’s a sort of boyish charm seeing his hair falling forward, the curls covering up his forehead.

“I will have you know that we were quite sneaky. Were it not for the party we would have never been found out. All my doing, of course. Felix was better as a distraction than an actual accomplice. As for the sweets, I do still have a sweet tooth. Another tragedy of being in the south. It’s calmed since when I was a child, and I appreciate the sweet fruit as an equally appealing option…but sometimes one simply must indulge in chocolates or pastries.”

A moment later he suggests that she drink something else. It was out of politeness that she drank the beer with him, after all it was easiest to get ahold of when they went for their food. But he’d managed what, two or three? She’d barely finished her own. Maretus moves to stand, but she can see his body wavering, the alcohol apparently having taken hold of him more than he’d thought. He catches his feet on the legs of the chair and she’s sure he’ll fall over. By the time he trips, grabbing the table before he actually falls, Vanora’s out of her seat, grabbing his upper arms to keep him from toppling over. When he leans forward, catching himself on the table, she nearly bumps heads with him, her hands still wrapped firmly around his biceps.

Glancing up, she realizes their tips of their noses are touching, her body halfway across the table. Suddenly she can’t remember how to breath and her heart starts beating as fast as it might if she were running from those wildcats again. She’s sure they stay like that a little _too_ long, Vanora staring right into his eyes, before she sucks in a quick breath and she releases her hold on his arms. As she’s straightening up she starts laughing, the entire situation both hilarious and confusing in her body’s response.

“Sit down, Maretus. I can’t have you breaking your pretty neck before I’ve caught up to you. Just stay here and I’ll find something better than this beer. Which you’re absolutely required to finish. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

* * *

 

His hand reaches the table and suddenly she’s up on her feet and her hands are around his biceps, helping stop any further descent he might have had. She’s a few inches shorter than him, a fact he knew objectively before, but it is brought to his attention very suddenly when she looks up at him and their noses brush against one another. Her face is so close he can see the little flecks of darker color in her eyes, and feel her breath against his own mouth. She freezes like an animal caught, her fingers gripping his arms, and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

For however long they are frozen like that–he can’t tell if it’s a heartbeat of a moment or an hour–all other sounds dull to a distant hush to his ears, and it seems the only thing he can hear is his own pulse and the sound of her sucking in a breath. A strong curling in his gut urges him to do something, to move closer and close the distance, but his lips part a little and he hesitates.

Then she lets go of him and straightens all at once, laughing. He doesn’t let go of the table, but laughs along with her, though not quite as robustly. The quick tightening deep in his belly, the surge of heat that rose up with it–all things he is not used to and doesn’t quite know what to think of or handle. So he does his best to ignore them and sinks back into his seat, looking appropriately sheepish.

“Ah–I suppose I miscalculated how quickly I drank all those,” he says. “But I will happily finish off yours for you. Can’t let it go to waste.” Though, he doesn’t say out loud, if she wanted to catch up to where he felt he was, they might not be able to make it back to their respective quarters.

But it is of no matter. His cheeks are warm, his belly is warm, his heartbeat is still frighteningly present in his throat, and he is enjoying the night.

As she goes to the bar to find something more palatable to her tastes, Maretus reaches across their table to drag her mug over. She had nearly a third of it left–not bad for someone who disliked the stuff, but nowhere near his pace during the evening. On a whim, he also drags her chair a little closer, too, using his boot to tug it along the floor. Not terribly close. But a little closer.

When she rejoins him a moment later, another glass in her hand, he smiles and lifts her mug in his hand in welcome to her return.

“Were you successful in your mission?”

* * *

 

Maretus doesn’t argue and sits back down in his chair, a sheepish look settling on his face. It only makes her smile brighten, the very capable man looking suddenly like a younger man who’d embarrassed himself. Vanora turns before she starts staring, making her way through the crowded tavern to the bar. Her heart is still beating quickly in her chest, cheeks flushed from either the proximity to Maretus or the heat from the tavern and beer. She can’t be certain, and even if she could the answer could be more complicated than she cares to handle right now. As she walks she swears she can feel eyes on her back the whole time, but when she glances around nobody seems to be watching, a few tables of people glancing around perhaps a little more than the others. There are so many people in the tavern it’s hard to tell when someone’s watching and when they’re simply looking around.

Sidling up to the bar she smiles at the bartender, leaning over the wooden counter so she can be heard over the constant din of conversations, laughter and drunken antics. The wine here isn’t _good_ , but it’s a far cry better than the beer. So, feeling like she’s got to at least catch up to Maretus, she gets an entire bottle and another tankard of beer. Drinks in hand she makes her way through the crowd again, managing to get by without any spills. The first few times she tried doing so she’d spilled all over herself, but she’s gone through the place with drinks and food so often since coming to Skyhold that she’s a pro.

The tankard goes down first, set right in front of Maretus as he’s mid drink. She doesn’t say anything as she sets it down, just smirks at him before setting her own bottle down. Maybe it will make him feel better knowing that she’ll soon catch up to his beers. Still very much in control of her body, though it’s a little warmer than usual for one reason or another, she slips back into her chair, tucking her legs safely under the table. It feels like she’s closer to Maretus, but she’s sure it’s only her imagination…not that she’s in any way opposed to it.

"I would consider myself very successful,” she says proudly, as though she’s managed some great feat worthy of praise. The wine is cracked open with the quick ease of someone who’s opened many a wine bottle in their life, her first glass filled nearly to the brim. While it’s still on the table she leans forward, sipping at the edge of the glass before picking it up, keen on avoiding spillage. Having a good evening doesn’t mean she wants to spill wine down her front. That was trashy.

Lifting her glass up, facing Maretus, she puts on a serious face.

"To us–may we stay forever close, and never again run into wildcats.”

* * *

 

He’s not expecting either–the new tankard or the bottle–and his brows lift in surprise again. She was being serious about catching up to him, and he has to admit he’s a little impressed when she pops open the bottle of wine with one experienced hand.

To her toast, he can readily agree, and so gently taps the mug he’s finishing for her against her very full glass of wine, being as careful as he could be not to spill any of it. It would be a shame if she got wine all over her dress front.

“To us,” he echoes, then takes a hearty drink from the mug. It’s nearly gone now, so he takes another swig to finish it off after he’s swallowed the one from the toast.

Maretus wanted to ask her something, before he’d nearly fallen over and she’d gotten refills for both of them, but he can’t recall now what it was. So he focuses on her toast, easily remembered because she just said it a few moments ago.

“Close–I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to someone as when we were crammed in that little crevice together,” he says, eyes moving from the full tankard before him up to her. “Had to share plenty of tent space back in the day, but never another person as a pillow.” The thought makes him warm and makes him chuckle, remembering.

“Though,” he adds quickly, suddenly more serious than he was before and looking her straight in the eye, “I have to say that you make a particularly comfortable one, if you want to know.”

Despite his alcohol induced tumble minutes ago Maretus very kindly taps her glass with his mug, preventing any sort of spillage. Thank goodness for foresight. Vanora takes a rather unladylike gulp of her wine and revels in the fact that it tastes infinitely better than the beer. What was with men and beer in the south? Maybe her tastebuds are so glad to have a change of pace that the wine tastes quite good, or perhaps it is only the beer that is so rank.

* * *

 

Maretus finishes off the last of the beer in her mug as Vanora sips at her wine. If there were home they would both be reclining on chaises out in the garden, picking at some snacks and lounging in the evening. At some point blankets would be brought out to protect against the nighttime chill, but perhaps after surviving this weather Vanora might not need one. Not at first anyhow. The reminder of being crammed together in the cave brings an instant smirk. Vanora takes another long sip and sets her glass down.

"Nor have I,” she agrees, rolling her eyes when he says she makes a good pillow, “I shall try not to take that as a reflection on my weight and say I’m glad to hear it. Alas, the rock was a decidedly unpleasant pillow, so count your blessings.”

Normally Vanora wouldn’t be drinking her glass so quickly, but she has promised to catch up to Maretus and so she shall. The first glass is finished off when she speaks again, leaning forward and propping her elbows onto the table.

“Do you know that you have remarkably soft hair? I always thought curly hair was quiet textured or wiry and, that yours looks so shiny and sleek because you always keep it slicked back. But I am happy to report that was incorrect. Your hair is as lovely in texture as it is in appearance.”

* * *

 

It’s evident that she’s enjoying her wine much more so than the beer, and he briefly debates asking her for a swig of it. But then he eyes the full tankard she got him–a size nearly double what the mugs were–and decides that after he finishes that, if he still wants a drink of her wine, he will ask then. He hasn’t settle in for this much drinking with someone since his earlier Legion years, but… he’s enjoying it. Much more than he would have thought, had someone asked him beforehand and sober.

“Oh!” he exclaims when she rolls her eyes at him, suddenly very worried that she thought he was insulting her in some manner. “No, I didn’t mean it that way! Just that you are pleasantly soft, and it was very comfortable, and smelled nice despite the hard riding, but of course I didn’t mean it as a poor reflection of your weight. No, no, you have a very fine form.” He’s most certainly babbling at this point, stumbling over himself to try and apologize for some feared, imagined slight. Her weight never crossed his mind in any manner and he was immediately put out that it came across that way, and for some reason absolutely _needed_ to ensure she didn’t think he was trying to insult her, or give her some left-handed compliment.

“If we find ourselves in some similar situation, you may use me as your own pillow to return the favor,” he adds. “I promise I am much more comfortable than a rock.”

When she drains her glass–an impressive move–Maretus joins her, though he doesn’t go through quite as much of his new tankard as she her wine. He’s already far ahead of her, and so consciously tries to pace himself now. If she keeps drinking like that, at least one of them needed to be upright. He could carry her, the thought strikes him, though if he were unsteady on his feet he would be just as likely to drop her, and he definitely did not want to do that.

“You like my hair?” he asks at her ‘report’ on it, quite surprised and feeling a peculiar, particular warmth spread through his chest again, welling up a sense of weightlessness along with it. Self-consciously, he drags fingers through it, sweeping the wayward curls that had fallen over his face back. “I… never gave it much thought beyond the best way to keep it from my face while fighting or training. But, I… I am glad you find it nice.”

He is nervous quite suddenly, and so takes another long drink to wet his throat again–it is suspiciously dry–and try and calm the mild stuttering his heart is doing. “I can’t say the same of your hair–I’ve never had the occasion to feel it, but it always looks very nice. Even after a long day of work, you look lovely. Your hair looks good.” He quickly tries to correct his slip, to cover it up, but it’s already been said. Feeling even more embarrassed now that his mouth seemingly won’t stop running of its own accord, he takes another drink. At this rate he might be asking Vanora for some of her wine sooner than expected, after all.

* * *

 

Apparently Maretus doesn’t understand that she’s just teasing him. Not that it’s particularly surprising. He’s had a good amount of beer, and so he can’t be expected to pick up on the subtle nuances of the conversation. The response she receives is much more entertaining than anything he could have come up with had he recognized the teasing. She smelled nice? A very fine form? It makes her smile again, something she’s doing so much she’s sure her face will ache tomorrow, and she giggles at his increasingly desperate rambling.

"Maretus…darling, _shh_. I was only teasing you. But I am glad to hear that I seem to be able to avoid smelling awful after a near death experience, and that my fine form seems to lend itself to comfortable sleeping arrangements. Should we ever have to sleep without pillows I shall hold you to that offer. Another night on rocks might break my back.”

Everything feels good now. She’s satisfied from dinner, warm from the alcohol, and thoroughly enjoying Maretus’ company. She hasn’t laughed or smiled so much in years. Hell, maybe not in her entire life. It’s a stark realization, a testament to how she had both lived and not lived. How could she have missed out on so many opportunities to smile and laugh? Simple. It was unseemly to do so in polite company–she wasn’t some barmaid. In the back of her head she can almost hear her mother scolding her, but she doesn’t so much as acknowledge it. Her mother is a continent away, and she is very keen on continuing the evening’s festivities.

Vanora cannot say for certain, but she has a suspicion that her comments on his hair are embarrassing him. Once again he starts rambling, trying somehow to explain the slip of tongue, only to further muddle up his statement. It is remarkably endearing and Vanora’s chest swells as he trips over his words and lets it slip that she looks lovely even after a day of work. Does he really think so? She always imagined she looks haggard–tired from a day of nonstop work, hair mussed up with bits falling out around the tight ring of her braid. Unconsciously she reaches to the back of her head, fingers gripping the edge of her braid as though she was making sure it was still there. Such a practical way to wear her hair.

“You would have little reason to feel my hair. It’s always tied up. Such a dull, practical way to wear it, but I could hardly walk around with it down all the time. It would constantly be in my way. Should a time come when it’s _not_ all braided, you are welcome to test it’s texture for yourself.”

It sounds ridiculous the moment it’s out of her mouth, but Maretus is already speaking again. While he’s tripping over his words she’s pouring herself another drink. When he buries his face in his tankard, drinking to keep himself from talking, she’s managed to drink half the glass already. She tries to conjure up an image of Maretus after drilling the soldiers and finds that it is much easier than she expected. His hair was inevitably a little unruly, some curls escaping their confinement after all the activity. The sleeves of his tunic rolled up as he finished training, breathing heavily and skin slicked with a thin sheen of sweat. Vanora blinks, breaking the daydream only to realize that her heart’s beating much faster than it ought to and there is a warm feeling churning deep in her belly.

"Speaking of working…I wouldn’t have thought that soldiers would look good after drilling all day, all sweaty and dirty. But you seem to be a remarkable exception. I don’t know how or why, but somehow you…”

Now it’s her mouth that’s run away. Instead of finishing the train of thought she laughs, shaking her head and grabbing her glass, finishing off the last of it before refilling it.

"I do believe that the wine is starting to do it’s work. It’s much better than the beer, should you want a taste. I am quite willing to share.”

* * *

 

Her endearment is used so easily he nearly misses it through his embarrassment and the alcohol, but once it does slip through and sink in that she just called him _darling_ , he feels his ears heat up. Of course she doesn’t mean anything by it, he sluggishly rations–just some general pet name, it has to be. There are plenty of people who call nearly everyone _dear_ or _darling_ or some other diminutive, and mean nothing but pleasantries by it.

So he manages to not blurt out that he’d like it if she took him up on his offer, taking another drink instead. He’s nearly finished with his tankard, though he doesn’t quite remember having so much in such a short time. Watching Vanora work on her second very full glass of wine, though, she’s starting to catch up with him. She’s slighter of frame than he, of course, and so it wouldn’t take her nearly as much or as long to reach the same general level of pleasant intoxication that he’s residing in. It occurs to him that he’s never seen her drink like this before. It could be because she usually sticks to beer, and he wonders if that’s a way to prevent her from drinking more, or if it’s to be nice to him because he drinks it.

“Hm,” he says, eyes studying her face and the wisps of hair that now frame it, watching her touch her braid. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you with your hair down.” He would like to, to know how long it is, if it falls in waves or is straight, what her face and shoulders would look like framed with it. Imagining it to be on the wavier side, he thinks it would look good with adornments in it, hanging and flashing gems in Tevinter fashion. Something subtle, like she is, yes.

But when she retaliates with her own compliment of how well he looks, the fantasy of her with her hair down is shaken from him, and another embarrassed laugh tumbles from him.

“Looking good after a day of training with all that dirt and sweat and mud?” He shakes his head at her, delighted amusement clear in the ever warming amber of his eyes. “I believe that wine _has_ addled your good senses, Vanora. I should definitely have some, if only to save what’s left of your judgement from making more bad calls on what’s attractive and what’s not.”

Reaching across to grasp hold of her glass as soon as she’s finished refilling it, his hand brushes against hers going for the same thing, his fingers against the backs of hers. Instead of pulling away, he is distracted suddenly by the feel of them, their coolness compared to his, and lightly skims his fingertips from the middle joint of her fingers down to the tips, where his hand meets the chill glass of her drink.

Unsettled by the immediate thudding of his heart in his chest from the barest touching of her hands, the fact that he’d done such a thing, the fact that he _enjoyed_ such a thing, he fully grasps the glass and brings it back to him for a decently-sized sip. He sets it back down closer to her again, nodding and looking at the wine in the glass rather then her face or her hands.

“Yes, that is a fair bit better than the beer. I have to wonder why you suffer through the stuff when you can drink this instead,” he says, trying to ignore the fact that he’d just more or less caressed her hand.

* * *

 

He’d _never_ seen her hair down? It seems ridiculous that after so many months of knowing one another he’d never once seen it. Maybe it wasn’t so strange after all, it’s rarely down, and even when it is it’s usually braided. Vanora can’t remember exactly when she cut it last, but it’s long enough that it’s a hassle to brush it all. Thus the practicality of braiding it constantly.

"Well, someday you’ll see it I’m sure. It’s too long to leave it down in just a braid, it still gets in the way. So it stays all tied up on my head. Quite different from home. Braids were just meant for decoration there. A pretty way to keep your hair from your eyes if you weren’t opting for some sort of ornamental clips. Of course it helped that I didn’t have to sit and comb it myself every night. Julia could do the most amazing things to my hair. All these braids that she could weave together into patterns, quite amazing. She taught me once, but clearly I could only grasp the basics.”

If Maretus has been higher born she wonders if he would have grown his hair longer. Curly hair was so difficult to predict. She’d known a few women who had curly hair and fretted constantly, complaining about how difficult it was to maintain. Sometimes it behaved and grew out nicely, but she knew that it was equally as likely to grow out and turn frizzy or poofy. The idea of Maretus having poofy hair nearly makes her choke on her wine. No, she thinks she likes him better with his hair the way it is now. Too much longer and he simply wouldn’t look like himself.

“There is more than one way of looking attractive, more than one standard. You don’t have to look pristine and put together to look good. Being sweaty with your hair all tousled is hardly an unattractive image. The dirt and the mud hardly bother me, it’s a very masculine look. I quite like it.”

She says this matter-of-factly, giving him no more room for argument. The wine is doing its work, loosening her tongue and clouding her mind just enough that her rather direct responses don’t make her feel stupid or uncomfortable. What does it matter, anyway? So she thinks he looks good, it’s not exactly a crime or some deep, secret desire. Well… _looking_ wasn’t so much a secret desire. That usually involved a more hands on approach.

Maretus interrupts her line of thought when he reaches for her glass. She’s just finished refilling it, the bottle set down beside her, and moves to pick it up so she could hand it over to him. Vanora reaches the glass a moment before he does and their hands touch, his resting just over hers. She freezes, eyes locked on Maretus, not sure what to do–Maker he was just grabbing the glass, it wasn’t some huge issue to handle. But logic is completely drowned out at that moment. And then he moves, but not in the way she expects. Calloused, warm fingers ghost over hers, and Vanora shudders. Was he doing that on purpose? Or was it merely an accident? It doesn’t _seem_ like an accident, she certainly wouldn’t have done that thoughtlessly. When he grabs the glass, his hand separating from hers as he pulls away, Vanora realizes that the heat in her belly now matches the heat in her cheeks. Damn her pale skin. Perhaps Maretus will simply pass it off as a side effect of the alcohol.

Vanora inhales slowly, trying to steady the slight tremble in her hand. Her gaze lingers a moment more on her fingers before she finally looks up. Maretus doesn’t seem to be fazed at all by the interaction and sets the glass back down before her.

"Yes,” she murmurs, the word barely more than a whisper, and she sucks in another slow breath, “but it only seems polite to share the same drink…though now that I say that it sounds rather ridiculous. I suppose next time I’ll skip out on the beer.”

* * *

 

Slowly, his head clears, but the thudding of his heart and the heat down low in his stomach don’t vanish, and he takes another sip of his beer. The bitterness of it it almost a shock after the sweeter wine, and the subtleties he usually can pick out and make the beer decent enough for him are completely lost. Inadvertently his face scrunches as he sets the tankard back down on the table.

Her voice is barely above a whisper, and he almost misses what she says around the din of the room around them and the alcohol humming through his ears. Something about her voice makes warmth flood both down his neck in embarrassment and also sends another surge of heat coiling through him.

“You’ll not want to go back to beer after that,” Maretus says, desperately thankful for the continuing conversation that’s about anything but how he just touched her hand, thankful for more distracting thoughts. “It’s even worse.”

His voice is pained, as if he were being compressed and trying to speak through the pressure, and the thought strikes him as amusing and so lifts his eyes to smile at her, to try and keep things comfortable between them.

But lifting his eyes was a mistake–if one could call it that, as he doesn’t regret it in some ways, but does in others. Her face is flush, the rosy color sitting high up on her cheekbones, and her hand is still resting exactly where it was when it had been around the glass and beneath his.

“Don’t…” Words catch in his throat, and he has to clear it a little before being able to speak them again. “Don’t share a drink you dislike just for politeness’ sake.” And the timbre of his voice drops, as if he were speaking a secret to her. “I’d never take offense to such a thing.”

It is odd, this feeling of wanting to sit and stay and drink with her all night while simultaneously wanting to leave the rest of his beer unfinished on the table and bolt for the door and the cool night air to clear his head. He drinks all but a few more mouthfuls of beer from his tankard, feeling the bitterness of it turn into warmth as it goes down. It helps dull the embarrassment he’s feeling, and allows him to think about it. He _did_ enjoy the feel of her hand beneath his, her hands on his arms earlier when she caught him, her eyes and nose and mouth only a breath away from his face.

What does it all mean to him? He isn’t used to having such thoughts, or feeling such heat all bundled up in a taut coil just above his hips. The alcohol might allow him to think about it, but it certainly doesn’t help disseminate anything beyond that, it doesn’t help him decide if he should do anything about it. Or, indeed, if he did, what he should do about it. Should he apologize? He feels like he should. Should he do it again to see what she did? He feels like he should do, that too.

No, the alcohol was not particularly helpful, so he drums his fingers lightly against the tankard, eyes still on her face all this while, then lifts it and finished the beer off. A bit more might not hurt.

* * *

 

It’s only after she’s spoken that Vanora realizes how breathy she sounds and nearly smacks herself for it. How old is she? Five, ten? She can’t even remember the last time she’d sounded so ridiculous. And her _face_. Maker preserve her, she can still feel her cheeks. Vanora is certain there’s no way to hide that deep a flush or pass it off as alcohol. She’s drunk, but she’s not some alcoholic with a dark flush. The skin almost throbs in tandem with her heart beat. Vanora has to actively focus on breathing, trying to slow the beating of her heart to a normal pace. This can’t possibly be blamed completely on the alcohol. How many times had she been dangerously close to drunkenness with an attractive young man keen on flirting shamelessly with her? Plenty of times. Never before had she reacted so… She can’t even name the sort of reaction she’s having, but it’s one that she cannot decide on–does she want more of it, or does she want it to stop? A bit of both, really. The fluttering and heat is strange, but not altogether unpleasant. A night spent this way would be remembered fondly, she is sure, if not with a bit of strangeness.

She realizes with a start that her hand hasn’t moved from it’s place. Minute tremors run once more through her fingers where he’d touched her, and she flexes her hand to stop them. Lowering her hand and reaching for the bottle she turns her focus to the physical items before her instead of the mess going on in her head. The action of refilling the little bit of wine that Maretus has drunk is mechanical, her eyes only shifting back to him when the glass is full again.

Unless it is the alcohol making Maretus’ voice so deliciously husky, it seems that she is thankfully not alone in feeling the strangeness and tension in the air. Then again he did seem to cringe at the taste of his beer. Perhaps it was that, the adjustment back to the vile drink. It could easily have burnt his throat after the sweetness of the wine. She takes a rather large sip of her wine to hide the smile at the look on his face. Tilting her head slightly to the side she sets her glass down and reaches for the bottle. She reaches over to him, sliding the wine across the table with a grin.

“Take your own advice, then, and finish that off. You looked like you were going to be ill from the beer, and there’s no more than a glass left there. Might as well finish off the evening with something sweet, hm? And don’t say anything silly and chivalrous about it being rightfully mine, I think I’ve had quite enough alcohol tonight.”

It will be a treacherous journey back to her room as is; she needn’t add more alcohol to her over-served state.

* * *

 

She is a delight, he decides quite suddenly, watching her eagerly drink the next glass of her wine. That won’t hit her until about ten minutes from now, and he can’t help but smile at the thought. Not that she’s been cold or aloof to him–even when they first met–but she’s so very _warm_ now, when she’s had several glasses in her. He likes it.

“Hm,” he grunts amicably. “The beer has its place. Too much of this sweet too often, and my teeth will fall out.”

And this time he _sees_ her cheeks darken, and he knows it’s from what he’s said. It brings him a surprising amount of satisfaction, and he has the urge to do it again, but holds his tongue. This isn’t something he’s used to doing, something that he has any kind of skill in doing. In truth, he’s not even quite certain what it is he’s doing, other than enjoying Vanora’s company perhaps a bit too indulgently. But. He has not enjoyed himself this much since before he can remember, and with as much alcohol he has loosening up his mouth and body in general, Maretus isn’t inclined to stop.

In simple response to her ‘ _oh_ ’, he just smiles and lifts the bottle of wine to his lips, drinking a fair amount of what was left. It wasn’t as potent as the beer, and much lighter so it went down smoother and its warmth came later down his throat. It was dangerous–he could probably drink quite a bit of this wine and still be fine on his feet.

When he sets the bottle back down, she stands–only wavering a little bit–and urges him to finish the wine, he feels a fluttering in his stomach. It’s a sensation that’s only amplified by the widening of her grin beneath the rosiness of her cheeks. The wink catches him off guard, makes thoughts race through his head, and his eyes can’t help but fall to her hips as she carefully weaves her way through the tables and chairs and patrons toward the bar proper again.

Lifting the bottle slightly to toast her back as she walks away, Maretus does indeed finish off the bottle. It’s light and sweet and goes right to his head, but in a much different way than the beer. The beer was heavy and muddled his senses, but the wine seems to perk them up again, making him feel bold and a little reckless. Standing–and making certain he is steady on his feet–he leaves their table to head to the door, arriving there shortly before her. He waits, leaning a bit agains the door frame to both preserve his vertical state and because it felt nice to lean against something.

* * *

 

Despite her state of intoxication Vanora reaches the bar with remarkable ease. Maybe people are moving out of her way, or realize that she’s out of sorts and try not to bump her. Regardless of the how, she finds herself soon leaning against the bar, smiling warmly at the bartender. He fixes her with his gaze, brows raising in silent question as he takes in the flush of her cheeks and the smile on her face.

“Someone’s enjoying their evening,” he says, briefly glancing somewhere over her shoulder before returning his attention to her, “I don’t suppose you’re here for a snack?”

He’s expecting her to turn him down, but he doesn’t expect her to laugh. His brows raise even higher and Vanora shakes her head.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am thoroughly enjoying my evening, and intend to draw it out just a little longer. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun. So no, no snacks. Just another bottle of wine, please.”

While she leans against the bar, glancing around at the other people nearest to her, the man disappears for a moment, returning with another bottle. Perhaps it’s the alcohol but it looks bigger than the last. Setting on the bar he gives her a look of warning.

“Now don’t go getting into any trouble, hear? And don’t bother with the money. You two eat here like clockwork. Go have some fun.”

Before she can so much as utter a word in protest he’s turned away and has started chatting with one of the soldiers. For a minute all she does is stare at his back before shrugging it off and grabbing the bottle. If he wanted to give her free wine then she wasn’t going to complain about it. Weaving her way back through the crowds towards the door she finds Maretus waiting for her, leaning up against the doorpost. Holding up the bottle she grins.

“I bring libations!”

She doesn’t bother mentioning that the wine is free, or that the bartender seemed rather aware and amused by her state of drunkenness. For now all that she can manage to care about is Maretus, a nice little stroll outside, and the alcohol. Probably in that order. Without taking a breath she’s pushing the door open with the back of her hand, still holding the wine, and loops her arm through Maretus’. She tugs him up towards her and grins at him.

“Come on, Maretus! The night isn’t over yet!”

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for Vanora to join him, a bottle of wine in her hands and the exuberant declaration of it on her lips. It makes him smile, the motion unconsciously turning wide and bright and crinkling the corners of his eyes. He’s about to open the door when she beats him to it, catching his arm with her hand and slipping hers through so the crooks of their elbows hook together, drawing him along with her.

Such familiar contact makes him feel a little silly for getting so wound up over brushing her fingers earlier–it seemed almost like a distant memory now, though it couldn’t have been more than half an hour past. It had felt significant at the time, but now he’s not so sure.

He doesn’t have time much to dwell on it when the cool of the night air surrounds them, a sharp contrast to the closed-in warmth of the tavern and highlighting the fact that his skin felt _very_ warm that had nothing to do with how many layers of clothing he wore and everything to do with how much alcohol he’s had. Though Maretus has better feet than when he stood and nearly toppled before, he shuffles a bit, making _extra_ sure he doesn’t stumble on anything on the ground–it would be a bad thing if he were to fall down and drag Vanora with him.

As such, he cants a bit to the side her arm is looped through as they walk, his side against hers and not quite leaning, but just solidly there. The press of her side against his does an excellent job to keep himself more or less on an even trajectory, and as a bonus, feels exceptionally pleasant. Though she may complain about being cold all the time, she is warm, and he could feel that through his tunic (at least, he thinks that’s what it is, and not just more of the alcohol).

Without realizing he’s doing so, he hums contentedly, a reverberating sound more so than any sort of tune or melody, unaware that he’s fallen into a comfortable silence with her as he concentrates on walking as normally as he could and focusing on the feel of her side against his, and her arm through his.

Finally, though, a notion makes it through all his unsorted thoughts, and he speaks it aloud. “We certainly shouldn’t be drinking that while walking–and it’s far too chilly I think to sit outside. Might have well stayed if we do that.” He nods to himself, agreeing with what he just said, but then gives her an accusatory look. “ _You_ have _far_ too many stairs to your room. And no fireplace. Therefore, it is my suggestion that we head in this westerly direction, toward what I think is an excellent place to enjoy the rest of that wine.”

And he tugs a bit on her arm, this time pulling her along with him as he changes their course.

* * *

 

It’s familiarly cold outside, the unpleasantness of it only amplified as the tavern door shuts behind them and takes away the little bit of extra heat. The alcohol, however, has been helpful in that regard. The redness of her cheeks dissipates with the cold and all the wine she’s consumed makes the chill seem not as awful. It doesn’t keep Skyhold from being more like a tundra than anything else, but it keeps her from instantly shuddering and running for the tower. Even if she wanted to run there was no way she’d make it without breaking an ankle or tripping over herself.

They take the first few steps slowly, Vanora’s exuberance from the wine not outweighing her self preservation instincts. If they went running out across the courtyard there would be trouble for both of them. Maretus shuffles, the two drawing closer to one another, pressing against each other for support as they walked on. Although she doesn’t feel as chilly as usual Maretus is still warm, the heat seeping into her skin pleasantly as he presses against her. Had they been so close since the incident with the wildcats? She doesn’t think so.

Something that sounds like a hum, the sort of noise one makes when content, reverberates through his chest. Vanora is tempted to match the noise but instead sticks with her smile. It’s not as energetic as when she’d dragged him out of the tavern, but still bright enough to be a strange sight to anyone passing by. Hell, everything about this was a strange sight. The two of them, arm in arm, a bottle of wine in tow, smiling and leaning together like…well, she wasn’t sure.

Maretus makes excellent points. Sitting on stone sounds particularly unpleasant–cold _and_ hard–but getting anywhere indoors required a certain level of finesse. They couldn’t just wander into the keep and chat in the great hall. Nor could they go to the tower. A too-cold room could only be reached by a daunting number of stairs, and in this state they were more likely to break their bones than make it to the first floor. She nods solemnly in agreement but arches a brow and give him a sidelong glance.

“Westerly, hm? Aren’t your rooms that way?”

Her tone is a strange mix of sarcasm and something that sounds a little like an impressively poor attempt at sultry. Clearly she is out of practice. It would have been easier, more natural, were this a decade ago…and were Maretus some altus she had set her sights on befriending and using. But it’s Maretus, and he means something. He isn’t just some guy she knows, they’ve been through so much, and without him around… She doesn’t like that thought and focuses back on their change in direction. Reaching over to him she makes him take the bottle.

Though her body is warm enough her fingers are chilling rapidly, the flush of her skin fading to a pale blueish color. The arm that is looped through his shifts slightly, just enough for her to carefully tuck her fingers under her cloak. Tugging Maretus closer she reaches over with her free hand, wrapping it around his upper arm so that her thumb is covered with the palm of her hand and her fingers and carefully settled between his arm and his ribs.

“It’s always the fingers. Don’t your hands ever get cold? Don’t _you_ ever get cold? Some Orlesian noble should send me some nice fur gloves. Though it doesn’t seem so bad out really, now that there isn’t a warm tavern open directly behind us.”

* * *

 

“They are, in fact,” he replies, nodding. “I am pleased you remember.” Though it isn’t as if he actually expected her to forget–not that she was a frequent visitor, but she’d been there enough times, he would expect, for her to recall where they are.

“And they are much more suited for our purposes.” He originally picked up on both her sarcasm and flirting, but since forgotten; he had wanted to comment on it, but focused on his happiness that she immediately remembered where his rooms where, his mind already moved on to the next thing. Besides–this is Vanora. They’ve been through so much together, the flirting couldn’t be serious. Though part of him–a much larger part than he would soberly admit, but can come closer to doing so inebriated– _did_ wish for it to be so. But. She is who she is, and he would be a fool if he thinks she would be seriously interested in him. Perhaps if she weren’t intending to go back to her life in Tevinter… No. He shakes the thought from his mind internally.

He did not wish to think of her going back to Tevinter without him and picking up where she left off and whatever arranged marriage she very likely had waiting for her there.

“One,” he continues as she nudges him with the bottle and he takes it in the hand not currently occupied with her arm, “my rooms are on the ground level, so we just have to make it through a hallway, not stairs. Two,” something in his chest flutters as she draws him closer and slips one hand between his arm and his side, the skin beneath his tunic prickling into little bumps despite having no direct contact. He loses whatever he was saying, but then swallows and tries again. “Two: I have a fireplace _and_ chairs enough to sit around it.”

He laughs at her question of if he ever gets cold, and flexes his arm a little to press her fingers in the wedge between that and his side. “Sometimes I get cold, but not as quickly as you do,” he replies fondly. “In fact I’m honestly _surprised_ you don’t have at least five pairs of gloves by now.”

* * *

 

At least the cold mountain air kept the ground from getting muddy most of the time, particularly when the sun set and the temperature dropped. Vanora can only imagine what a mess it would be if they had to traverse the grounds while slipping and sliding through mud. Not as great a disaster as breaking limbs trying to get up stairs, but not a good way to end a night either. Coated in mud in the night air was not something Vanora was keen on experiencing. 

Luckily Maretus’ logic is sound. There’s no danger of breaking an arm while traversing the stairs, nor was there the threat of freezing to death. Even if it was cold they could easily huddle up by the fire, passing the wine between them. The thought trails off, conjuring up an image in it’s place–the two of them leaning together, chatting, wrapped up in one of his blankets. It makes her stomach flip. How much would she enjoy that? More than she was willing to admit to herself…but she wasn’t denying that she would savor those moments should they come about.

The flexing of Maretus’ arm snaps her out of her little daydream, though it does little to dispel the idea of them curled up together. Her fingers are pressed solidly between his arm and side, the muscles she’d seen earlier when he was dressing flexing to press her hand closer. The heat from earlier creeps slowly back into her cheeks, and she masks it with a roll of her eyes.

"Your logic is perfectly sound,” she agrees, wiggling her fingers to press them against the muscle in his arm, “Even if you are showing off. As for gloves I do have several pairs…but I try not to be outside long enough to really need them. Perhaps I should start carrying them on my person at all times. I can’t _always_ rely on you for a source of warmth. Imagine if I turned up during your practice so I could warm up my hands. _Shocking_.”

* * *

 

“Showing off?” He feigns shock, the alcohol very obviously stirring up more of his humor than he normally lets show. “If we weren’t so familiar, I would be insulted. I am certainly not.” Though another person would perhaps take his words at face value–especially being who he is–his tone is light and teasing enough that someone who knows him can easily pick up on it. Maretus has no doubts that Vanora would.

At the small wiggling of her fingers, highlighting their presence pressed against his side again, he has the sudden and driving compulsion to shift his arm from merely couching her hand to wrap around her shoulders. In fact, he very nearly does so, but then he pauses to think about her fingers, and that they would have nowhere against him to be sandwiched for warmth, and he liked the notion of her doing that. So his arm remains as it is.

The idea of her walking all the way from the healing tower just to find him and warm her hands strikes him as quite an amusing one. “I find it entertaining,” he tells her aloud, “to imagine you hurrying all the way from your tower to the practice field–out into _more_ cold–to search me out among all the soldiers drilling there just so I could warm your hands.” The look he sends her is an affectionate one, and he’s a little surprised to see her cheeks red again.

He didn’t think it was so cold as to rosy her cheeks, but then again, the alcohol could have made him impervious to the real temperature. Luckily, he finally sees the end of the barracks come into view that houses his quarters at the end of it. Not high enough in the Inquisition to warrant his own office or fancy quarters in the keep itself, but enough that he gets his own private rooms, bath, and desk set down a hallway away from the rest of the soldiers’ rooms. In fact, when he stops to think about it sometimes, he’s routinely surprised at how much the Inquisition has given him–but he supposes he does bring crucial training tactics to them, so it’s an earned privilege.

“And soon enough we’ll be back inside, and I’ll get a fire going for you, so we can _properly_ enjoy this bottle of very tasty wine.” To emphasize his point, he lifts the bottle in question a little and gives his a few gentle shakes, the liquid inside it sloshing around a little, just audible through the thick glass.

* * *

 

The alcohol is most certainly doing its job. He’s smiling and joking and touching her without things being uncomfortable, and it makes her want to burst. If only it could be like this without the alcohol, but perhaps it is the rarity of this situation that makes it all the more precious. When else would he walk arm in arm with her, joking and flexing his arm to keep her fingers warm? Earlier that day she would have never imagined such an evening, but her chest swells knowing that this would bring her a plethora of happy memories.

Any the night isn’t over yet.

Glancing over to him she shrugs, “Desperate times, Maretus. I would bring my gloves, of course, to make sure all your heat stayed in my hands.”

It’s silly and illogical, and she recognizes that, but it doesn’t mean she dislikes the idea of it. How ridiculous would that be, running off to find him drilling the soldiers only to hold hands with him? Really it would only be an excuse to hold his hands, period. Her heart flutters at the idea and she gently squeezes his arm, watching the barracks come into sight. They’re so close to comfortable chairs and a fireplace, even if it means letting go of Maretus. Perhaps the idea of them sharing a blanket while waiting for the fire isn’t so ridiculous after all…

“Yes! It will be nicely chilled too. Cool wine, heat from you, heat from the fireplace–the perfect end to a memorable evening.”

They reach his door and, reluctantly, she lets go of his arm so that he can open the door. Her arms are immediately crossed so she can tuck her hands beneath them, shivering from the sudden rush of cold air that hits the side of her body where Maretus had previously protected her from the wind and cold. She waits for him to open the door, stepping in quickly once he’s entered and closing the door firmly behind her, relishing the respite from the wind.


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.**

The moment she leaves his side, not only does he feel the loss of her heat, but immediately misses the very feel of her. It is a very visceral and surprising sensation to so acutely notice the _lack_ of someone. She closes the door swiftly behind her and he quickly moves in the dark of the room to light the nearest wall lamp. He only lights one before going to the fireplace, setting the bottle of wine on the mantle, and then busies himself with starting a fire, speaking as he does so.

“I wish I had a set of curule chairs we could sit in, but the Inquisition doesn’t seem to appreciate their comfortableness.” He chuckles at the thought. “But if you want to bring over the chair from my desk, once I get the fire going I’ll get the cushioned reading chair for you to sit in.”

In the dim light he picks up the steel fire striker he keeps on the mantle, then crouches down and strikes flint against it until the sparks catch the kindling he’s piled in the fireplace, beneath neatly stacked wood. By the time Vanora’s dragged over his desk chair from the open area between the sitting area with the fireplace and his bedroom proper, a proper fire has caught and is growing. He blows gently on it, to encourage it, then glances over his shoulder at her.

“Yes, that’s the one. Now–now hold on. Let me get the other.”

Standing with a quiet pop from one of his knees that he ignores, he goes past her to the other side of the room, where a nicely cushioned and high-backed chair sits beside a pair of windows and adjacent to a four-shelf bookcase. The light from the slowly growing fire and single wall lamp cast long and deep shadows this far away from them, but he knows where everything is and so has no trouble going behind the chair to pick it up by the sides and carry it back over.

“There,” he said, setting it down close to the other. “For my highly esteemed guest.”

Smiling and finally lifting his eyes back up to her, he sees her in the golden flickering light, not quite silhouetted from his vantage point as she stands between him and the now-crackling fire. It grips his heart in his chest tightly, a sudden constriction that is almost painful, almost overwhelming, and has everything to do with the way she looks standing flushed and in the firelight in his quarters. His throat likewise goes suspiciously dry, and he has to wet his lips and swallow before he can manage words again.

“Ah,” he begins. “are you… warmer yet?” It isn’t necessarily what he planned to ask, but it’s what comes out.

* * *

 

The room is pitch black, and Vanora stands off to the side not daring to move for fear of tripping or knocking something over. Just because she had been there before hardly meant she could walk freely with the knowledge that she wouldn’t run into anything. They’re only in the darkness a few moments before Maretus lights one of the wall lamps. It casts a pale yellow glow around itself and provides just enough light for them to safely navigate the space. Maretus sets to work on lighting a fire, mentioning how much better it would be if they had some chairs from home.

“Wouldn’t that be lovely? I suppose it would be a little foolish for them to bother with any extra furniture that wasn’t bare bones and basic. The goal isn’t exactly to furnish each room with the most comfortable things in Thedas.”

Remaining silent she wonders how long it would be before she sat in a curule seat again. It wouldn’t be a matter of years anymore. Only a few months of travel would stand between her and Tevinter. The reaction it stirs in her isn’t one she expects. Excitement, yes–she is eager to go home, to be herself in a place she knows all the dynamics of. But the idea of leaving also saddens her. There were only a few people in Thedas who had ever been privy to the real her, the one without a mask of stone and cold demeanor… and it seemed as though she would be forever missing at least one of them. Maretus would stay here while she returned to Julia and Felix… unless he _didn’t_. He could always come with, couldn’t he? There were always ways and means to get what one wants in Tevinter. As she had done earlier she starts wondering what he’d look like in garb from home, in his uniform or something more casual. Vanora only lets her mind wander a moment before she nods, hearing Maretus mention chairs to sit on.

Vanora turns, seeking out the desk in his room and finding it quickly. Crossing the space between herself and the chair she glances around to ensure she won’t hit anything when she picks the chair up. Of course, Maretus’ room is spotless and sparse, so there isn’t anything directly in her way. Satisfied that it’s safe to move around, even when tipsy drunk, she bends slightly at the waist, grabbing the chair and lifting it. It’s light so it isn’t terribly hard to move. Most of her effort is exerted in walking carefully so she didn’t trip over her own feet. With the alcohol strongly taking hold, there were no guarantees. Setting it down in front of the fire that has markedly perked up she waits, enjoying the heat that it emits. Vanora watches the fire dance, listens to it cracking, and she wonders why she didn’t just create a little fire in her fingers to warm them up. It’s much too practical, she decides, and it would mean no more leaning against Maretus.

She glances over at the chair he’s brought when Maretus declares that he’s brought a chair for his honored guest. Smiling she wanders over, running her hand along the arm, feeling the texture of the fabric. Turning back to Maretus, smile still intact, she leans against his side again, one arm wrapping behind him and settling around his hips.

”Better, yes. Though it might take a minute or two for the _whole_ room to heat.”

* * *

 

A shiver runs through him inadvertently at her arm slipping around his back and resting around the narrowness of his hips. She presses against him again, leaning comfortably, and he leans back. She smells nice, he notes suddenly, picking up on her lavender and the medicinal herbs again. There is a slightly different scent to her hair, something he can’t quite place through the warm and pleasant haze of the alcohol, but he doesn’t need to know what it is. He enjoys it, enjoys the smell and feel and warmth of her against him.

“Will your fingers be able to last that long?” he teases her, his hand seeking out and finding the one of hers not around him, taking it and placing his other over it to sandwich it between his palms. They are, in fact, still cold he finds, but they will warm quickly from his, he knows.

Though he lamented the lack of a curule seat not a few minutes ago, Maretus now wishes for a sofa of some kind to set before the fire so that they could both sit together, leaning against one another and passing the wine bottle back and forth. What he originally envisioned as a companionable evening between them, with her sitting in his arm chair and laughing, and him with his legs stretched out from his desk chair now turns into a want to have her lean against him.

A small sigh escapes him as he admits to himself that it wouldn’t be possible. The only place they could both sit on one piece of furniture together was his bed, and there was no fireplace near that.

“There is only one problem, standing behind the chair like this,” he says with true regret, and drags his eyes away from her face to the mantle. “The wine is not with us.”

* * *

 

Leaning against him once more is comfortable, as though it was a common thing for them to do. He’s warm and familiar, and she can smell a faint hint of the beer he’d been drinking earlier mixed with something earthy. It’s a pleasant smell, and she wonders if he would smell different if they were home. He’d talked about the woeful lack of spices in the South. Would he smell like the spices he so dearly loved when he got his hands on them again? He didn’t strike her as the sort to wear cologne, so spices and earth and leather seemed like safer bets.

She’s about to glance up at him as he teases her about her perpetually cold hands when he moves. Vanora’s eyes widen slightly, the contact startling and simultaneously very much welcome. She hums contentedly at his touch, curling her fingers slightly, the tips of them nearly lacing through his.

And then he mentions the wine.

Earlier she would have snapped out of it, startled herself with what she was doing, but does it _really_ matter? After all, he’d started the hand touching. Looking over to the mantle she nearly huffs in annoyance that the bottle is there and out of reach. Instead of huffing she sighs, perhaps a little dramatically, and nods.

“Yes…it’s rather far away. Pity you don’t have a couch, I quite like having my own personal heater. But, alas, we can’t leave the wine all by its lonesome.”

Slowly she sneaks her hand out from between his hands and retracts the arm that rests around his hips. She steps away from him, the heat dissipating from her side, but, this time, there is no rush of ice cold wind to make her whole body shudder. It’s still chillier than standing next to him, but the fire is doing an admirable job. A few steps towards the mantle is all it takes to grab hold of the bottle. The wine has made her head fuzzy, the normal rules that governed how she behaved, and especially how much she touched, are blurred and suddenly not very important.

"You take the fancy chair if you want it. I think I shall risk the cold floor so I can sit nearer to the fire.”

* * *

 

The way her hand fits in his is altogether far more pleasant than Maretus could have expected, and he can feel her fingers curling slightly, curving in closer to his and pressing against the rough calluses of his palms. She leans against him pleasantly, and he’s enjoying this moment, this step outside the norm from the warmth of the beer and wine in his head far too much to stop and question what they were doing.

But then she withdraws both the hand he’s holding in his and her other from around his body, and for a split moment he wishes he hadn’t mentioned the damn stuff.

At her comment, however, his eyebrows lift and his presses his lips together to give her a mildly incredulous look. Without replying, he picks up his reading chair again and walks it over to where she’s standing by the fire, setting it down much closer than before.

Leaning against the back of it, he tilts his head at her, eyes on her face. “They can be moved, you know,” he says, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth.

Straightening, he takes the few steps over to join her, delicately taking the wine bottle from her hands and popping out the cork. Maretus takes a healthy drink from it before offering it back to her. “Perhaps I can see if there is a spare couch somewhere that someone else isn’t using,” he muses, speaking his thoughts aloud without bothering to check himself, “if we ever want to do this again in the future.” Of course it would only be for this sort of situation–he has not general use for a couch in his quarters. But he doesn’t care in this moment that it wouldn’t make practical sense for him to have one; Vanora wanted one to sit next to him, and right now that is all the reasoning he needs to want to procure one.

* * *

 

Vanora doesn’t move from her spot near the fire. Bottle in hand she watches Maretus, who is clearly amused by something. It takes her a minute to realize just what it is he finds so entertaining. The chair is moved closer, no more than a foot or two away from her, and Vanora nearly slaps herself. Yet another side effect of so much wine. Were she with anyone else she would have been alarmed, frightened even by her lack of control and cunning. But it’s Maretus, and he poses no threat to her. They have been through too much for silliness and an evening without walls to pose a threat.

“There is no need to look so… _smug_ ,” she huffs. If he were to bring it up again, to tease her with her moment of stupidity, she is sure that she would never hear the end of it. But it wasn’t really Maretus’ nature to tease her, at least not for long. She can’t recall the last time he’d poked any fun at her before this evening. Perhaps it is a good thing they’ve decided to spend the night drinking together. It is a way to relax, to enjoy one another’s company without worrying or thinking about propriety. At least to a degree.

Maretus takes the wine from her, and Vanora watches as he pops the cork and takes the first drink. Which bottle is this? The second? The third? Her inability to recall the amount of wine they’d gone through was a sure sign that they had consumed too much. And yet when he held the bottle out to her she reached for it without a second thought. She lifts her brows as she takes a long sip, wondering how feasible it would be to actually get their hands on a couch. Certainly not something to be done tonight. Wandering around looking for a couch at this hour was ridiculous. Handing the bottle back to him Vanora nods in agreement.

“I think procuring a couch would be a capital idea. Then we could _both_ have a comfortable place to sit and be warm. Though I don’t imagine I provide much heat. _And_ you would have a comfy place to lounge. You see, it’s entirely practical. More practical than trying to move your mattress and convert it into a makeshift couch anyway.”

* * *

 

_A comfy place for him to lounge._ The thought strikes him as immediately funny, though he’s not entirely sure why, and he laughs. It’s a smooth and rich sound, warmed by all the drinks they’ve had that evening, warmed by the enjoyment of her company he doesn’t think too much about or question.

“Can you imagine _me_ lounging comfortably anywhere?” he hears himself saying. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had a place to do such a thing.” He accepts the bottle back from her and takes another drink, the sweetness of the wine flooding his senses once again.

He’s honestly not sure he’s ever had so much fun before, either. It’s easy to be with her, surprisingly so, _alarmingly_ so. It has him saying things he wouldn’t otherwise usually, has him at an ease he’s not certain he’s ever felt in his entire life.

“ _Ah_ –if I had a hearth in my bedroom proper, we could have designated the bed as such,” he says, sounding genuinely disappointed and offering the bottle back to her once he’s finishing another long draft, not even considering the possible implications of what he’s just said. “Though I will not allow your to sell yourself short,” Maretus continues, the amber of his eyes highlighted in the dancing firelight and catching her gaze, “you _do_ provide a rather pleasant amount of heat as I recall from that tiny little crevice in the rock.”

It is a pleasant, quick rush of memories, his face pressed and cradled against the softness of her stomach, the adrenaline rush of surviving such a sudden and ferocious attack and the flight at breakneck speed down the mountain. He cannot remember many details, but he does recall the instant he knew they would live and the way she felt and smelled and the overwhelming gladness that they wouldn’t be torn to shreds. In more sober moments of remembering, he would have thought he could recall the details about her with perhaps too much clarity and fondness, but right now he simply enjoys it.

* * *

 

His laughter is lovely and warm, and the sound sends a pleasant jolt right to her heart. She wished that he could laugh so freely when they were sober, but it is likely how rare the sound is that makes it particularly dear. Vanora tries to etch the sound into her mind, commit it to memory, and perhaps one day he’ll have reason to laugh this way again. She certainly hopes so.

At his question Vanora purses her lips, her thoughts wandering away from his laughter to him lounging. Because yes, she _can_ imagine him lounging comfortably in a variety of places. She isn’t surprised that the image that jumps to mind first is one she’s imagined for herself. It is easy enough to picture Maretus along with her. The scene suits him she thinks.

"Of _course_ I can imagine it,” she asserts, “It’s not hard to do. You’d be out in the gardens, just before noon when the breeze comes in off the ocean and cools the air. And there wouldn’t be all these heavy woolen clothes, they’re not appropriate for home. Something light and airy, comfortable and easy to move in. There are plenty of chaises throughout the gardens where you can see all the flowers and water features. Add in a good book and some refreshments and it’s a very pleasant picture indeed.”

Of course, she imagined she’d be around as well. It would be heaven to spend an afternoon together with nothing to do but enjoy the day with one another. After everything, it seemed like a much-deserved rest. When he mentions their time crammed in a cave she _should_ recall how lucky they are to be alive, how they had come so close to death. And then what a mess the return trip had turned out to be. The cave hadn’t been comfortable, all rocks and uncomfortable sharp edges, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t enjoyed some part of it.

"Well, I am pleased to hear that I managed to make the entire evening more tolerable. Imagine if you had nothing but rocks! I think I make an excellent pillow. Especially with all those layers.”

Vanora takes hold of the wine bottle, drinking deeply. For once she feels warm, the mixture of Maretus’ closeness, wine, and the fire successfully heating her up. Pursing her lips for a moment she glances over to the room where his bed was tucked away. It was rather inconvenient. It is nicer by far to lean against Maretus, for one reason or another, and the chairs will certainly not allow for it. So she stays upright and hands the substantially lighter bottle back to her companion.

* * *

 

The picture she paints of him lounging in the gardens– _her_ family’s gardens–is quite a lovely one, and one he is startled to realize he has an instant desire for. He can easily imagine her in it as well, walking up to him while he reads with a book of her own in one hand and a plant in the other, trying to learn it as she said she had always wanted to do as a child. He can see how he’d be lost in whatever book he’d procured from her library, not seeing or hearing her approach until she laid a soft hand on his hair, brushing through it to rest on his shoulder.

The fact that he was readily envisioning himself so unguarded and vulnerable with her that he wouldn’t have been aware of her presence in this gentle fantasy she’s drawn out startles him enough that it shakes the image from him.

“It does sound lovely,” he says anyway, though his voice has a touch of a shake to it, a nervousness whose nature he cannot quite pinpoint. He clears his throat to cover it. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to do with this for now.” With a small sweeping motion of his hand, he gestures to encompass the little space before them with the chairs and the fire, now crackling happily away.

A wry smile spreads across his face as he takes the wine bottle back from her. “I don’t have to imagine–rocks have been bed and pillows to me plenty of times throughout my life, and I can say with absolute certainty that you are far more comfortable than they.”

After a moment to take another drink from the bottle, he levels his gaze back to her, shallow lines drawn across his brow and his dark eyebrows canting together. “Don’t you want to sit?”

Suddenly, he worries he’s made something awkward between them. Perhaps it _was_ too intimate, too forward to invite her back here. “If… if you’re too tired I can walk you back? Or… you can, you can always use my bed. It’s not a problem,” he adds quickly before she can protest, if she was going to. “There’s no hearth but plenty of blankets and I have heavy tunics you can borrow if that’s still not enough…” He trails off when he realizes he’s rambling.

* * *

 

Whatever has gone through his mind seems to alter Maretus’ tone. He sounds nervous almost, and the rambling suggests that she’s correct. He always rambles when he’s nervous or uncomfortable. It’s endearing, really, watching the control give way to so many words in an attempt to cover up his nerves. If all it took was a bit of wistful imagination to make him nervous then perhaps the alcohol was finally having a little _too_ much effect. Or he doesn’t like the idea of being in her gardens.

That makes her blood run cold. Perhaps she had misspoken. Vanora hadn’t explicitly said _her_ garden, but there was little doubt that was what she meant. She enjoys the idea of them spending afternoons together out there. It had always been a safe haven for her, and time seemed to pass at a more leisurely pace when there. Focusing on her breathing she takes a slow breath in, releasing it gradually, and turning her attention to something inane–the fire. When Maretus seems to regain control of his tongue a moment later Vanora glances over at him.

Vanora doesn’t register what he’s said right away. She’d heard something about chairs and sitting down before he’d started rambling. And then there had been something about escorting her back to her rooms…as far as she was concerned that was absolutely out of the question at this point. Then she registers the last of it. Use his bed? Borrow his tunics? Something in her stomach flips and she is about to smile when a yawn interrupts her.

"Mmm, I think returning to my room would be rather foolhardy. We’d be more likely to break our ankles or crack a rib than make it safely up the stairs. So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take up your offer. Breaking bones isn’t on my to-do list.”

It wasn’t as though they hadn’t slept in the same room before, but it’s not quite the same thing. Of course, she suspects he’ll insist upon taking the floor, which is absolutely not an option. He’d taken the floor last time, and so long as there was a fire and a pile of warm things to curl up in she would be fine.

“Don’t even think about sleeping on the floor,” she adds before he can respond, “You slept on the floor last time. It’s my turn. If I bundle up and stay by the fire I assure you that you will wake and find me still very much alive and unfrozen.”

* * *

 

It must be the alcohol–were he in a more sober state, surely he would have been completely mortified at himself for even suggesting such a thing as her sleeping in his bed, but now he barely bats an eyelash at it.

Then again, it’s not like he was suggesting she sleep in it with _him_ , though that is an alarmingly attractive idea now that it crosses his mind. A much more comfortable situation than crammed into a rocky crevice together, and far warmer. He’s never actually slept beside anyone that closely in his life, and he isn’t even sure how restful it would be–would he be able to find sleep at all? Would the sounds and subtle shifting she may do as she sleeps disturb him? Would he take up too much room for her liking? It’d be nice, he decides in a normally tucked away part of his mind, if they nestled comfortably against one another, perhaps her head pillowed against his chest or arm, or his arm draped along the curve of her side, dreaming of softness and lavender.

Waving the hand not holding onto the bottle of wine dismissively, trying to banish the mental image and not exactly succeeding, Maretus then pats the back of the reading chair. “Well, the wine’s not done yet so we have some time yet to fight over it.”

To try and coax her into sitting with him as was their original intent, Maretus walks out from behind the chair and drags his desk chair over so it’s closely opposite the comfier one, then deposits himself into it. The wood creaks beneath his sudden weight, as does the leather jerkin he wears, and for an instant he wishes to take it off, but them decides perhaps it is somewhat too chilly to do so. It isn’t overly uncomfortable, anyhow.

“So,” he says, motioning to the chair with the bottle of wine for her to sit. “You’ve been traveling Thedas this past decade or so, just as I have. Where is your favorite place you’ve seen?” He takes another, albeit smaller, drink of wine, his eyes never leaving her face overtop the bottle while he waits for her to sit, holding it hostage in his hand until she sits with him.

* * *

 

It doesn’t even cross Vanora’s mind that the very obvious answer to the impending ‘no I’ll sleep on the floor’ argument was to sleep together. His bed was large enough for the both of them. Granted, it wasn’t the spacious beds that filled the rooms of her house back in Tevinter, but compared to some of the beds she’d slept in on her travels it was quite sizeable. The perks of being someone of relative importance in the Inquisition.

When he insists that they have plenty of time to argue about the sleeping arrangements Vanora smiles and shakes her head. Maretus motions towards the chair, a reminder that they were supposed to be sitting. All this fussing over bringing the chairs to the fire and all they had done was stand and talk. It appeared they were both easily distracted when intoxicated. Yet another reason Vanora had always practiced moderation. To be drunk was to be vulnerable.

Unless it was Maretus.

Her drinking companion takes his seat, apparently holding the wine bottle captive until she acquiesces and sits down. Slipping around the side of the seat she settles into the comfortable chair. Hands shifting to her lap out of habit she smoothes out her dress, crossing her ankles and listening to Maretus. All their conversations and they had never spoken about their travels? Shocking. But perhaps it wasn’t so strange when one took into consideration that they had become so close based on who they were _now_ … enjoying companionable silence certainly didn’t promote discussions of past adventures.

“Let me think a moment,” she responds, wiggling her fingers towards the bottle so that he might hand it over while she speaks, “There is no one particular place, but I’ve enjoyed the untamed woods the most. The Arbor Wilds, the Brecilian Forest. Granted, I was only in the Brecilian forest briefly. The taint still hangs heavy there. The forests are so… _different_. Such a stark contrast to the North. Dangerous, but beautiful and lush. So much life. What about you? I’m sure that you have seen just as many places as I. Perhaps more.”

With the bottle back in her hand, she takes another swig, careful to make her sips smaller so the alcohol doesn’t disappear so soon. She’s enjoying this, talking unguardedly with the person who is closest to her. She realizes that he is the only one she truly trusts here. Perhaps the only person she trusts beyond Julia and Felix. The realization _should_ startle her, maybe even frighten her. Trust is not something easily earned, and were she sober it would have likely thrown her off kilter. As it is the shock is tempered by the wine, turning what might be horror into a calmly passing thought. It lingers, swirling around in her brain as she watches him, but doesn’t do much beyond make her smile to herself.

* * *

 

He waits until she sits, their knees almost brushing against one another he set the chairs so closer together, and then wiggles her fingers at him for the wine before taking one final small sip and handing it over to her. It really _is_ much better than the beer, even if it is less potent. It makes him almost wish he had something stronger stashed in his rooms, but he isn’t a drinker and as such doesn’t.

At her answer to his question, he nods solemnly. “Ah, yes, that makes sense,” he says. When he looks up at her again, upon seeing her questioning look, he continues, “You wanted to know all the garden plant names as a child, of course the lush forests would be among your favorites.”

He leans back in his chair, enjoying the heat from the fire to his right and the very faint heat emanating from her knees to his. “My favorite place, hmm.” The last word is barely more than a thoughtful rumble from his chest. He lifts a hand and rubs fingers idly through his neatly trimmed beard. “I too enjoyed the lushness of the forests, though I never traveled through Brecilian Woods. Aside from those, I’d have to say Lake Celestine. It always seemed to peaceful to me, and Orlesian nobles, as silly as they can sometimes be, certainly know how to make beautiful boats to sail with on the waters. Nothing like the Waking Sea,” he adds with a soft laugh. “I nearly drowned on that damned stretch of water.”

“That makes me wonder,” he says, leaning forward with an open hand to silently request back the bottle once more, “did you face much danger on the road?”

* * *

 

The way Maretus parallels her love of plants as a child to her fascination with forests surprises her, and it makes her chest swell. Her lips part in surprise for a split second before turning up into a smile. It’s not a connection that she’s ever drawn, which makes it all the more special. Now that he’s said it the whole thing seems embarrassingly obvious. The lush greenery of the gardens of her childhood had fascinated her the way the forests did now.  


“Lake Celestine? I’ve heard of the place before, quite a popular retreat in Orlais if I recall correctly. Surprisingly, I’ve never actually seen it. With all this time traveling it feels as though I should have seen everything.”  


Vanora takes another sip before Maretus reaches out to her, beckoning for the bottle once again. Each sip is another few minutes closer to the end of the evening, and Vanora finds the earlier drive to drink as much as possible completely disappeared. It has given way to a desire to draw out the evening as long as possible, to soak up every moment of it before things return to normal in the morning. Or at least as normal as it can be with the hangovers they’re both likely to wake up with.  


“Ah, the Waking Sea. Dreadful thing, I traveled on it once and swore never to do so again. I’d rather travel around it by land than make that crossing again. At least I wasn’t crossing during the Blight…”  


Trailing off she hands the bottle back to Maretus, a smirk on her lips as he asks about the dangers of the road.  


“Well… I’m a woman traveling the roads alone. It would be impossible  _not_  to encounter danger. Luckily I learned quickly to stay with caravans or merchants and minimized my time alone. At least until I knew how  _not_  to get myself raped or murdered.”  


Tapping her fingers against her leg, her limbs so close to Maretus that she nearly taps his leg as well, she chuckles.  
“Honestly, I think I’ve been extraordinarily lucky in my years away. I never encountered anything that I couldn’t handle… although I admit I had to bring out a bit of magic. You are well aware that hand to hand combat is  _not_  my strength. And what of you? I don’t imagine that many people in the right minds would go out of their way to pick a fight with you… and those who did would certainly have regretted it.”

“I heartily agree with you about taking the longer land route around the Waking Sea as preferable. Perhaps if it was a necessity to cross it…” He shakes his head. “But I’d rather not. I’m not really the biggest fan of boats to begin with, let alone when a trip on one includes near-death experiences.”  


* * *

He draws out a sip much shallower than it should have been for the length of time he takes to drink it, noting the lessening weight of the bottle with each pass between them. Like Vanora, Maretus is much loathe to see the night end, and were he of a different nature, would perhaps even be contriving of a way to entice her to stay longer. But, being who and how he is, he simply tries to make it elongate by sheer force of will and wanting it to do so.

At her reply to her safety–her luck, as she called it–on the road, he cocks his head to one side, a curious look settling over his mien.

“But you are more than capable of handling yourself, irrespective of any hand-to-hand combat,” he says, genuinely surprised at her response. “Least of which is your magic, I would say.” Leaning forward to address her more directly, he adds, “I do not think you give yourself enough credit in this.”

Unintentional though it was, by leaning closer to talk to her, it brings Maretus almost intimately near Vanora. Not close enough for their faces to touch, but close enough that a mere shift would have him tumbling directly into her lap. The observation of this only fleetingly registers in his mind, and he dismisses it as quickly as it came, finding that watching expressions cross her face to be of far more import to him in that moment.

“For me,” he continues, not finding it necessary to move–he enjoys her company, after all, and they were having an excellent discussion, “there were certainly more than a fair share of people who picked fights with me.” His mouth tugs up into an amused smirk as he uses her terminology. “A few of them almost got the better, but I wasn’t trained to settle for  _almost_.”  


* * *

Living in a land of deserts and heat it isn’t surprising that Maretus isn’t a huge fan of boats. Not everyone had the luxury of spending time on boats for fun in Tevinter. Most people traveling on ships were merchants or slaves, but the upper echelons of society had always managed to relax on the water in style. It was, however, a different experience altogether. A trip on the Waking Sea was to forfeit your life to the Maker if you believed in him. At the very least it was a deadly risk, and not always one that could be made with safer alternatives.

Vanora notices that Maretus is barely drinking the wine, taking more time to ‘sip’ it than he drinks, but she has no issue with it. The fact that he seems as happy to extend the evening as she is makes her perfectly content. Truly, she thinks that this has been the most pleasant evening in her memory. For all its simplicity and relaxed atmosphere, it beat all the elegant parties of home.

When he leans forward, insisting that luck alone isn’t all that’s helped her throughout her journeys, her heart stutters, threatening to stop at his sudden proximity to her face. Blinking several times to try and get her mind to focus she smiles when he does, the reaction entirely unconscious. 

"I suppose magic did help me out. Being clever certainly never hurt,” she admitted, “Having a permanent travel companion would have made it much easier. Imagine if we’d been traveling together! What an adventure that would have been.”

She laughs at the idea, conjuring up an image of someone stupid enough to cross them only to realize very quickly what a dire mistake they’d made. Between her magic and his military training there would be few who would pose any real threat. She doesn’t realize that she’s sighing wistfully, the ridiculous smile still lingering on her lips, but she perks up when he mentions people were foolish enough to pick fights with him. Leaning forward, the two now close enough to share the same air, she narrows her eyes, exaggeratedly looking him over and then shaking her head.

“Mmm, yes, just as I thought. I must conclude you ran into a plethora of idiots. Nobody with any common sense would cross you, even as a wandering traveler.”  


* * *

This is easy. This conversation with her, this drinking with her, this… laughing with her. It’s all so very  _easy_. It’s also very easy to not dwell on it, to not think too much about the  _whys_  and merely enjoy it all as it’s going on. He hasn’t felt this relaxed in longer than he can remember, and the warmth of the wine convinces him soundly to not question the gifts of the present.

“And you are quite clever,” he says, voice unconsciously low and quiet, almost a murmur across the slim distance of their proximity.

To her suggestion, he nods in agreement. “An adventure it certainly would be–though at first glance I’m not sure we look quite so intimidating. Though,” his eyes light up a bit as his tone becomes teasingly chiding, “on my travels for many years I worked as a guard or protection, so I should  _hope_  I can look like more trouble than worth it when need be.”

When her eyes look him up and down, he barely suppresses a shiver, feeling a strange warmth spread through the pit of his stomach. It makes him feel vulnerable and exposed, the way she looks at him sometimes, and it unsettles him even more when he finds himself not minding it. Her eyes meet his again after encompassing his fire-lit form, their faces close and eyes both somehow bright from alcohol and tired. Like in the tavern, when her fingers were wrapped securely around his biceps and her nose brushing against his, Maretus feels a near overwhelming urge to lean in and finish closing the distance between them, and the thought and desire to do so settles hotly within him.

A quietly ragged breath escapes through his lips before he reigns any action he might have taken in and sits back up straight in the chair. Handing over the bottle to her, he awkwardly clears his throat a bit and looks over to the hearth, watching the flames dance within it.

“Still doesn’t feel quite warm enough,” he says, not quite able to look back at her just yet. The foreign feeling within him wanting to do something entirely inappropriate resists being quelled so easily now, in the intimate and warm dark of his quarters rather than the much more public sphere of the boisterous tavern.

* * *

 

 

Maretus’ agreement that she is clever makes her chest swell for reasons she can’t explain. What did it matter if he agreed with her? She’d survived just fine and managed to stay under the radar for a decade, so it was plain to see she was clever and resourceful. But there’s something about the added approval, the acknowledgment that he thinks her to be clever, that makes her stupidly pleased with herself.   


Raising her eyebrows when he suggests they wouldn’t look terribly intimidating as a traveling pair she has to concede that traveling with her would certainly dull any sort of intimidation factor Maretus possessed. A man and a woman traveling together seemed more like a couple seeking a new life than two capable travelers. Furrowing her brow in a mimic of deep thought Vanora nods.

**_“_** Yes, we might not look too scary. You would just have to scowl whenever we passed people and I could give everyone icy looks. That might help us look a little more intimidating. ** _”_**

The urge to laugh at the idea disappears when their eyes lock, her smile fading as her heartbeat speeds up. She hadn’t really realized just how close they were, faces almost as close as they had been when he’d taught her to flip someone onto their back and she had enthusiastically tried it before he’d explained how to land. Vanora’s mind races, matching her heartbeat, and then freezes. What if… they were so close already, it wouldn’t take much to close the space. Vanora nearly gasps from surprise when Maretus suddenly pulls away, leaning forward as though she’d gone to kiss him, dazed for a moment before she sucks in a breath and straightens up. Her eyelids flutter closed a moment as she composes herself. What had gotten into her? It feels like whatever had been inflating her chest, making her heart beat out of rhythm, had been popped. Whatever it is she immediately dislikes the feeling.

Taking the bottle thoughtlessly she finds that she isn’t quite ready to look at Maretus again. She can’t figure out if she’d started leaning in and he’d pulled away, or if he simply realized their proximity. Either way, the moment was broken leaving Vanora feeling quite ridiculous and Maretus clearly uncomfortable.

**_“_** Mmm, really? I don’t think it’s too bad… ** _”_**  she murmured, cutting off any further commentary with another sip of the wine. It takes an embarrassing amount of effort to draw her thoughts away from the shape of his lips and the way he smelled like the honeyed wine they’d been sharing, and Vanora is almost certain that she’s looking off into space as she collects her thoughts.  


* * *

Wherever she’s looking, Maretus doesn’t notice, as his gaze is fixed stubbornly on the fire. He isn’t cold, not really, it was more just something to say. The fire had been going long enough to permeate warmth through the whole room, not being an overly large space to begin with. His fingers spread out against his thighs, feeling awkward and unsure of what to do with his hands.

Clearing his throat, for once this evening it is he who attempts to steer the conversation back toward levity. “So are you saying you’re finally warm?”

Now he does look over at her, and feels his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. She looks… unhappy, and something in his chest constricts and makes it difficult to draw in a breath. With just that simple thought crossing his mind, it starts to spiral again. Perhaps she hadn’t been comfortable with how close they were only a moment ago. It wasn’t the first time they’d found themselves in close quarters, close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek, but while he was trying to deal with the ever-increasing realization that he was enjoying such closeness, now he suddenly worries that she doesn’t view those times in the same light.

That thought hurts him, like a quick and sharp blade sliding beneath the bottom of his heart. But it makes sense, of course. They were companionable, that is not under question, having been through much together over these long months in the Inquisition, and he considers her his closest friend, more dear to him than anyone he could think of in all the years of his life. And  _that_  thought startles him even as he has it.

It must be the wine loosening his mind, to consider such a notion as what it might be like were they more than companionable, more than just close friends. Maretus had never looked at someone and wondered what it would be like to do such things as those closer do–to kiss one another, to hold them and be held, to lie with them–but now he sucks in a breath as those very queries bubble to the surface in his mind as he looks at her.

She is a very handsome woman, the firelight flickering off her pale skin and dark hair, shadows following the lines of her neck and nose, and the curves of her cheekbones. Wisps of her hair had come loose from her braid throughout the day and even more so with the evening, softly framing her face. Their knees are still just short of brushing against one another despite both having sat back in their respective chairs, and without any conscious command on his part one of his legs shifts to brush against hers. The unanticipated actual contact breaks his chain of thought of wondering what it would be like to run his fingers along the side of her face.

With a concerted effort, he pushes all such thoughts back, pushes them away. Especially if his sinking worry is correct and she merely regards him as a dear friend and companion, it would be a terrible grievance on his part to entertain such wonderings. He will not allow himself to do wrong by her, even in the slightest, even by accident of assumption or guess.  


* * *

  
  
Gazing at the fireplace as he prods it Vanora tries to focus on the flames and let her mind go quiet. It usually works, staring off into the abyss of the sky or the flames of a hearth. There’s something about it that allows her to silence her thoughts and refocus. Granted, it’s usually quite obvious that she’s not paying attention or off in her own head, but it wasn’t as though Maretus would notice with his back towards her. Unfortunately for her peace of mind Vanora finds it difficult to stare much at the fire when Maretus is crouched before it. Instead of blanketing her mind in silence the scene makes her head spin. The firelight makes him glow, ink black hair nearly reflecting the fire, his skin bright and warm in the light. Vanora can see him now, a glimpse of who he had been before he had left Tevinter. Clad in the armor given to him by the legion, sun beating down upon him during hours of training. She had seen him train before in the Inquisition, teaching the soldiers what he knew in the hopes that they would benefit from his knowledge. But the sun in the Frostbacks may as well be the sun from another planet for the sun in Tevinter is harsher and yet more beautiful and radiant all at once. 

Did they even train in full armor? Wearing leather armor every day for hours on end seemed a sure way to exhaust the troops. Perhaps they went barechested, practicing with full armor on certain days. The possibility only makes her mind wander father, drawing up memories of the scars she’d seen on his ribs and the tiny ones littered around his skin. They spoke of hard-won victories or long sessions of training. She realizes with a start that he’s looking at her, that he’s spoken up first to try and move the conversation along. Her throat tightens, her stomach twisting with discomfort and she cannot quite place why. Maretus had done nothing wrong. What were they but friends? The closest of comrades? They had been through much together, and there were likely more trials ahead that they would face, but sudden drunken closeness didn’t reflect behaviors normally exhibited.

Then again, hadn’t someone once said that drunk actions were sober thoughts? Something of the like. She can’t remember it now, but it does beg the question… if they  _did_  reflect what they wouldn’t admit or do when sober… then what was going on? Leaning in close enough to share the air between them, nearly in one another’s lap and yet perfectly at ease until the moment is broken. In the back of her mind she can almost hear the lesson that had been beaten into her head on the dangers of emotional attachment… but it doesn’t matter. The moment is gone, her chest uncomfortably tight, and she does her best to process what he’s said without fumbling.

**_“_** Shocking, I know. I cannot fathom how I managed to get tricked out of a room with a hearth… ** _”_**  she murmurs, eyes widening slightly as his knee brushes against her leg. She been so stupidly lost in her own head that she hadn’t noticed he’d gotten up. A furtive glance is cast down at their legs and she bites absently at her lip, trying not to notice that the contact has banished the tightness in her throat and the twisting in her stomach. Smiling absently to herself she watches Maretus and hands the bottle back to him.

**_“_** You know you have spoiled me, I shall never be able to tolerate my room quite so well now that I have experienced exactly what I am missing out on. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

As she answers, some of the constriction unwinds within him seeing her expression soften and a small smile spread across her mouth as she offers him back the bottle. He takes it from her, judging from the lightness of it they only had a few more conservative drinks each before it’d be polished off. Maretus takes one now, deciding as he does so to let her finish off the rest.

It’s good, though, that whatever awkward moment that was between them is passing, and he returns her slight smile as he hands the bottle back.

“As I recall,” he drawls, not bothering to mask his amusement, feeling the last of the warmth of the wine trail a line down through his throat and chest, the sweetness of it lingering on his tongue, “you  _chose_  the room at the top of the healer’s tower as a point of convenience.” Both dark eyebrows arch up to frame the smile now turned sardonic. “Despite the lack of a hearth.”

“But… once I obtain that couch, you may certainly come sleep on it before  _my_  lovely hearth any time you desire.” Now he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out to one side of her, though they were still as close as before.

Relaxing further back even in the hard desk chair is mostly comfortable in the current moment, and he all at once feels the tired weight of the day settle onto his bones. He doesn’t normally stay up very late, and though it isn’t incredibly so yet, it is beyond when he usually retires. Not that he minds, not in the least. Vanora is good company and always someone he makes time for. Even so, a bit of a yawn sneaks its way out and he stifles it behind his hand.

It wasn’t a particularly taxing day outside the norm, but if anything could be said about Maretus, it’s that he was never one to laze about. The moment he can shrug out of his heavy leather jerkin and into a more comfortable woolen tunic layer instead is one he is anticipating. The thought of that strikes another in him.

“I should say, since the hearth is out here and not where you will be sleeping, you are more than welcome to borrow a woolen tunic for another layer of warmth. I have plenty.”

* * *

 

Vanora opens her mouth, about to protest, but closes it after a moment. After all, Maretus was right. She  _had_  chosen the room, though admittedly she’d been a bit out of it at the time. The long haul to Skyhold after Haven had taken quite the toll on her. By the time they arrived and settled in all the patients Vanora had lost track of how many hours she’d been awake. After looking the whole tower over it had seemed like a good idea to take the room at the top near the library…now, however, the lack of hearth made it much less appealing. Ah well, nothing to be done about it. Lips pursed for a moment she sighs heavily, resting her elbow on the arm of the chair and leaning over so she could prop her chin up on her hand.  


**_“_** Well, I cannot argue with you on that. I did, in fact, choose my room, however out of my mind with exhaustion I happened to be. Yes, I think I shall blame it on sheer exhaustion clouding my judgment. It seems a reasonable excuse for my poor choices in regards to my sleeping arrangements. ** _”_**

His legs shift, stretching past her own, limbs brushing against her own as he relaxes into his chair. How he can be relaxing, however, is beyond her. The desk chair is certainly practical, but it doesn’t look like the sort of seat that would be easy to relax into. Taking another sip of the wine and realizing that it was nearly gone Vanora made sure to make her sip as small as possible without blatantly refusing to take a full drink of the liquid. Eyebrows raising at the change in subject, turning from her bad room choice to her constant need for layers, Vanora lets the offer soak in. 

**_“_** That is very generous of you, and I may indeed take you up on it. I have a perilous journey to survive before getting to bed. I would hate to freeze to death. Slipping and falling down the tower stairs would be a much more dramatic way to go, ** _”_**  she says, laughing off the faux serious tone she’d donned,  ** _“_** But fear not, Maretus. I have no intention of dying en route to bed. Who would take care of you then? Or sit with you at dinner? Why it makes me sad just thinking about it… ** _”_**

Trailing off Vanora frowns, almost pouting, and regrets saying anything. The very idea of Maretus being left alone creates a pang in her chest that seems to echo throughout her very body. Everything they had fallen into, their routines and companionship, all disappearing in an instant. Reminding herself, albeit with a tinge of bitterness, that he had done just fine without her before Haven Vanora shakes her head with a smile.

**_“_** Clearly the wine is making me silly. There will be no dying tonight, and you shall certainly not be ridding yourself of me anytime soon. ** _”  
_**


	4. Chapter 4

**iv.**

“Well, we can forgive exhaustion in this case,” he teases. “Though wouldn’t there be some way to… fix it?” He wiggles his fingers at her to very poorly mime some sort of spell casting. “No way to enchant a fireplace up there for you?”

The lingering smile on his face turns fond as she continues. “No, I wouldn’t relish the idea of being without my dinner partner.” Not for the first time, his mind goes to a life without her in it, now that he’s met and gotten to know her. It’s not a pleasant idea, and he doesn’t like to dwell on it. She’s become a bit of a staple in his daily routine, and Maretus would miss her the way he would miss eating their shared dinners themselves–necessities that would be greatly to his detriment over time.

“Perilous journey?” he echoes her, bemused. “Vanora, we already decided your infinite amount of tower stairs was out of the question tonight, so your ‘perilous journey’ is but a mere handful of spans from here to the bedroom.”

He shifts a little in the chair, his position quickly becoming uncomfortable, the hard wood pressing into his back unpleasantly. Though she hadn’t specified which thing, exactly, she would be taking him up on–his to-be couch or his shirt–he liked to imagine it was both. Thoughts turning to future sleeping arrangements, a sliver of nervousness runs through him, though he can’t place why. She seemed to forget they already agreed she’d stay here–and he had no intentions at all of letting her sleep on the floor–and the fact that she’d be sleeping in his bed both satisfied his practicality and shook his sense of propriety. Of course she would take his bed, there was really nowhere else for her to go that he wouldn’t feel an bad host, but it certainly wasn’t like when he slept on her floor. That, however excessive and unnecessary a precaution it turned out to be, was under different circumstances.

This… this was different. This was something closer to intimacy, and he simultaneously didn’t know how to unpack what that made him feel, and scared him a little, and felt completely comfortable with it. In that moment he fervently wished they had more wine, to feel the sweet, dulling warmth that helped keep whatever tangled mess still overshadowed them at bay a bit longer.

Her words shook him from his reverie and he refocused on her, chuckling at both of them for different reasons. “I like the way the wine is making you,” he says without thinking about it first. “And certainly no ridding myself of you, I shouldn’t ever want that. Especially not tonight.” Unspoken was the reference to her staying here, but the words and connection never made it from his tangle of thoughts to his mouth to speak it, though thinking of it so much makes him feel he has.  


* * *

 

Maretus wiggling his fingers makes Vanora break out into laughter. He looks more like he plans on tickling someone than making any sort of flames shoot from his hands. Lifting her hand, the one not holding the just-about-empty bottle of wine, she curls it into a fist and then opens it slowly, a small flame dancing in her palm.

**_“_** Like this? I would have to be awake if I wanted a constant fire going in the middle of nowhere. Building a little fire pit in my room seemed more energy than it was worth. ** _”_**

Closing her hand the flame extinguishes and she finishes the last sip of the wine without paying any attention to it. Humming to herself in thought Vanora nodded, recalling that they had indeed decided that she would stay with Maretus for the night. The wording startles her and she corrects herself. Staying in Maretus’ room, not  _with_  Maretus. Vanora’s cheeks threaten to warm again, her mind immediately turning to what sleeping  _with_  Maretus might be like. His bed was large enough to accommodate them both, but not nearly large enough for them to sprawl out. Not as close quarters as the cave on the side of the mountain, but not far enough apart for it not to be a little closer than most friends would be.

**_"_** Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. Another gift from the wine. This is precisely why I try not to overindulge…at least not at parties. All of a sudden my self-control slips and I get forgetful. ** _”_**

Her careless grin calms into a fond, gentle smile when he speaks again, declaring that he shouldn’t ever care to rid himself of her. Vanora’s heart swells, the fluttering returning to her stomach, and if she was sober she would have shoved it all back down inside herself and played it off. As it was, she probably could do so with a bit more effort, but she finds that she doesn’t want to. There are no traces of any desire to hide from Maretus, and so her smile remains.

**_“_** Good,” she finds herself saying quietly, “because I am loath to lose you. It would be a very sad existence without you around I think. ** _”_**

Nodding as though to agree with herself Vanora goes to take another sip of wine only to realize that she’s finished the last of it. Blinking at the bottle she frowns, brows knitting together as she remembers that this would likely be the end of the evening. Her eyes shift back to Maretus and her face turns apologetic.

**_“_** I’m sorry, I should have offered you the last sip. I hardly noticed that there was so little left. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

Seeing the living curl of fire come from the center of her empty palm sends an inadvertent shiver through his core–though… not all unpleasantly. He’s had a good amount of time and events to work toward being comfortable with her being an altus, with her having magic. In fact, with the mellowing of his senses with the beer and wine, the pleasantness of the evening and her continued company, Maretus has to admit to himself he is… curious about it. He wonders just how warm it is, if it leaves her hands much warmer than their normal state.

When she remarks on her temporary lapse in memory, he is drawn out of such thoughts, and shares an agreeing nod with her. “While normally I’d agree with your sentiment of being careful not to over-indulge…” Here he looks around the room as if searching for something, then lets his gaze fall back on her. “I’d hardly say this is a ‘party’, or call a few beers and a shared bottle of wine ‘over-indulging’. Otherwise, we’d be in the same predicament.”

The warm fondness of her smile burrows its way into his chest, acting very similarly to the wine in warming him and giving him a curious lightheadedness. Her voice subdued in such a way as to make his throat tighten just a little, Maretus finds no words of reply come immediately to mind, so he smiles back at her.

Upon her apology for the wine, he waves a hand in vague dismissal. “I intended for you to finish it, no apologies necessary.”

Looking at the bottle in her hand makes him think of the flame in her free one not too long ago, and stirs up the conflicting jumble of thoughts now connected to her and magic. Overwhelmingly, though, through the comfortableness of the evening, his closeness to her from all their shared history together, his usual fears and worries are overtaken in the moment.

Caught up in the sudden swell of curiosity, he leans forward again and reaches for the hand that had conjured the flame, hesitating only briefly just before his fingers touch. His eyes flicker up to hers for an instant before focusing down again on her hand as his fingers grasp lightly around her palm.

“Does it… does it burn when it’s still there?” he asks, voice quiet and breathy, eyes still locked on her hand as he turns it palm up and runs his thumb along the center line of her skin there.  


* * *

**_"_** No, of course, this isn’t a party, which is entirely my point. Unless I’ve been utterly blind then I suspect you don’t have any sort of evil machinations or plans to assassinate or completely ruin me. So I believe that I am safe, though I will remind you that I’ve had more than one bottle to myself before sharing this one. ** _”_**

She doesn’t feel the need to state explicitly the dangers of parties amidst her peers in Tevinter. Before she’d left Tevinter she had lost count of how many faux pas at parties had ended very badly for people she knew. Vanora had, predictably, been immaculate in control and calculated everything so it wouldn’t come back to bite her in the ass. The same couldn’t be said for everyone else in Minrathos, and plenty of people had fallen prey to the loosening lips created by strong wine.

Vanora reaches over, setting the bottle of wine on the side table within arm’s reach from her spot in the chair. She’s just set the bottle down when something warm touches her palm. Although she keeps herself from physically reacting the sudden contact thoroughly startles her. Attention snapping immediately to Maretus, who seems quite intrigued by her hand, she tries her best to focus on what he’s asking and not what he’s doing. She fails miserably at the task. Although she does hear his question her eyes are locked on his fingers encircling her palm. Her heart beats heavily and her throat feels tight. The pads of his fingers are rough from all the years practicing with the military, but the texture is pleasant against her own skin. Once Vanora would have found Maretus’ rough hands to be unpleasant or uncomfortable, but now her own hands have lost their perfect softness. It was the price she paid for leaving home. No healer had hands as soft as she had in the first years of her travels. 

**_"_** No, it doesn’t burn. Only when I was first teaching myself, ** _”_**  she admitted,  ** _“_** My tutor thought learning magic without a staff was pointless, but I’ve benefitted greatly from it. Here, see for yourself. ** _”_**

Turning her hand so that her palm was facing his she laced her fingers through his and watched their interlocked hands. Gradually the space between them began to glow. Reaching over with her other hand, now free from the bottle, she placed it beneath his hand, loosening their fingers so that she could cup both hands around his. A small pinprick of light grew into a tiny flame, flickering between their palms and slowly growing into a delicate ball of flame.

**_“_** See, no burning, ** _”_**  she said, gaze flickering up from their palms to his face, hoping that it didn’t scare him. There was no love lost between Maretus and mages, but he hadn’t completely freaked out yet when seeing her magic. But this wasn’t the same thing. Watching a mage from a distance wasn’t the same as having one create flames between their palms.  


* * *

“No, of course not. You are always safe with me.” He meant to make his reply lighthearted, still teasing her, but instead it came out like a promise, a vow.

In the wake of far too much emotion he hasn’t untangled yet appearing in his words, Maretus clears his throat softly and continues, not quite drunk enough to miss feeling embarrassed about saying that. Thankfully she gave him something else to comment on. “Ah–you’re right. I had forgotten that you had a bottle at the tavern. I suppose we  _are_  in the same predicament then.” He chuckles.

He was lucky to have been in the military in Tevinter. Not because it was without its own etiquette or pitfalls, but because they were far easier to navigate, in his opinion of what he knew of regular altus society. No, he didn’t envy Vanora at all for having grown up in such a cutthroat environment. Then again, he supposed perhaps the same could be said of the Legion. A matter of the demon one knows, versus the demon one doesn’t.

When he takes her hand in his, he is not so nervous that his fingers shake, but nervous enough that he doesn’t notice any sudden intake of breath she has, nor that her eyes are also locked on their joint hands. Her palm isn’t entirely smooth, they have their calluses from herbal work and healing, but against his it feels strong and soft. There’s an immediate intimacy to the sensation, pleasant and as if he’d edged closer to a line that lay before them. Her palm is warm still, warmer than it usually is, confirming his suspicion.

But when she speaks, she moves their hands as well, shifting them and lacing her fingers through his.

It makes his stomach flip, their palms now flush against one another, now with no space cushioning propriety between them, and he sucks in a breath. He’s held her hands sandwiched between his before, or pressed between his arm and his body, but this felt markedly different. A small shudder runs through him, down his spine, and none of that was fear of her magic.

That comes next, though more in the form of a sudden, sharp worry–what if it burned him? He had no question of her control or skill, but he was no mage, what if the magic could sense that, somehow, and backfired on him of its own volition? His breath catches and holds without any conscious thought from him.

A light forms between their palms, showing first through the cracks between their entwined fingers, and then Vanora loosens her grip and he follows suit, follows her lead. Her hand beneath his, firmly pressing against the back of his to hold it where she wanted it to be, the little pinprick of light swirls to life into a small sphere of fire.

There is a moment of fear that threatens to overtake him, but slowly lets out his held breath, controlled, and he calms just as quickly. Small waves of heat lap against his palm from the delicate flames, but they don’t burn, they don’t start to flareup out of control to consume his hand, and he finally lifts his eyes to her face.

When he finds his voice to speak again, it is a rough whisper, marveling and surprised. “It's… it's… amazing. I… I never knew.”  


* * *

Vanora can feel the shudder that goes through his body, can hear the sucking in of air as he holds his breath. The nerves don’t ease up, the mage still nervous that he’ll yank his hand away as she moves hers so he can see the fire. Holding hands is a much more intimate form of contact than usual, but she likes it, and the little ball of fire between their hands makes their hands together look as nice as it makes her feel.

When Maretus doesn’t yank his hand back, exhaling the breath he’d sucked in as she created the little flame, some of the tension in Vanora’s shoulders eases. If he’s uncomfortable it isn’t bad enough that he’d break his composure to escape her. It puts her at ease knowing that he trusts her enough to let her do this, to create a little spark between them that grows into something so lovely and warm. Her eyes linger on their hands, watching the movement of the fire as it crackles quietly in midair. It’s prettier and less volatile than her preferred elemental magic. Although lightning was beautiful she much preferred to see it arching through the air, not confined in a tiny space between hands.

It’s a special moment, more poignant than she’d thought it would be. Admittedly she hadn’t thought too much about the repercussions of doing something so out of the blue, especially since she knew how uncomfortable he was with magic. So to see him staring at the fire, not flinching away or trying to break the moment, makes her exceedingly happy. It’s a clear sign of trust, and trust is paramount to all relationships. To trust was something dangerous, something that Vanora had always known was carefully doled out. Only a rare few in all of Thedas were trustworthy, and Maretus was certainly among them. But to see that it is reciprocated as far as she can tell makes her heart feel light as a feather.

But his words catch her off guard. Eyes widening, unsure if she’d heard him right, she pulls her gaze away from their hands and up to his face. Immediately her throat tightens and her face softens. If she was prone to crying Vanora would certainly be tearing up. The look of wonder on his face, his eyes fixated on the flame, the quiet words almost whispered, makes her heart soar. He is not afraid and so she dares to shift her hands. The flame doesn’t move, hovering in the center of Maretus’ palm, Vanora shifting her hands to either side of his hand, cupping it between her palms and letting the flame grow just a smidge, still floating gracefully above his palm,

**_“_** People fear magic, and I understand why… but I wish they could see it like this, pure and good and beautiful. I am… very glad that you are not afraid, ** _”_**  she admits, smiling softly at him and looking back to the flame floating between their hands. Has she ever been this content? This happy? If she has been nothing comes to mind. There, sitting in Maretus’ room, holding his hand with a little flame in his palm, Vanora is certain that she could die then and there and be completely at peace. She knows that there is more to it than pure enjoyment of his acceptance, that his wonderment and the chord it strikes in her isn’t straightforward. Being pleased is one thing, but feeling as though she could float right alongside the flame is another entirely.  


* * *

When she starts shifting his hand, his eyes drop to them again. The way she’s turned their hands makes it looks as if he’s the one with the flame coming out of his own palm, and it makes his stomach flip again. This time it’s his turn for his eyes to widen, the firelight warming and lighting up his face before him. Both her hands frame his one as she speaks softly.

“I… I was a little afraid,” he admits, “that your magic would… not react well to the fact that I’m soporati. I don’t really know how this all works, and feared…” He shakes his head, feeling silly now. “It is beautiful, but… just as a real–a non-magical fire,” he corrects himself, “can be dangerous when out of control, I imagine this is just the same.”

Maretus lifts his gaze to meet hers once more, realizing somewhere in the back of his head that he’s bouncing back and forth between the flame in his hands and her eyes, but he honestly cannot decide which he’d rather look at more in this moment.

“But you… you’ve helped with that. With not being quite so… vehemently against it.” Something catches a bit in his throat, but he swallows it back, even as the wine from the evening continues loosening his tongue. “I don’t need to say how I’ve felt about mages, about… altus… but knowing you…” He takes a moment to try and gather his thoughts, to wet his lips before continuing. “You’ve made me rethink a lot of things.”

Part of him wants to continue, to just keep talking to her about this, but he feels awkward and fumbling. He really hasn’t a clue where his trail of thought is leading him, and that very well could be perilous, uncharted territory. So he stops, hoping that would be enough. There’s too much, too much to sort through and figure out, and he is nowhere near sober enough to begin properly.

He watches the flame for several moments longer with unrestrained fascination. “Can you… do this only with fire? But other things as well? Does it take much concentration to maintain?” Now that he’s over the initial surprise, his mind, even muddled somewhat with alcohol, whirrs into a flurry of questions.  


* * *

When her hands are settled she watched Maretus, soaking up each detail of his face and his reaction, an affectionate smile on her lips as he stared at the flame that appeared to be in his hand. She isn’t actually surprised to her that he was a little afraid, particularly when he couldn’t know with absolute certainty would happen, but she is glad that it was only a little bit of fright. The flame thins out, coiling around itself like a little snake before returning to it’s original form as she speaks.

**_“_** It would only react poorly if I wanted it to, and that is the last thing that I would want. But yes, you are right. Fire is fire, and it still poses a danger. That’s why mages use it in battle, after all. ** _”_**

His words touch her in a way she wasn’t aware was possible. Although her heart is still light her chest constricts. Such kind, heartfelt words–they are not what she is used to hearing from anyone. Friendly, yes, but this is different. This is Maretus talking about how she’s helped him. Not just stitching up a wound, but to rethink the altus and magic. Perhaps not all of them, it could be restricted only to her, but it is a huge step for someone who had lived their life hating or distrusting magic and the altus class. Not that she can blame him for that distrust. Her social class wasn’t known for being genuine or trustworthy. To be the exception is remarkable.

**_“_** I do not know if simply knowing me will greatly impact the way you view other altus, or other mages, but I am so thankful, more than I think I can describe, that my social status and magic have not torn you away from me. When everything came out… ** _”_**  she trails off, remembering just how tumultuous things had been not so long ago,  ** _“_** I was frightened that it would be the end of us. To say that I am relieved it was not would be the understatement of the age. I want you to know that I will be honest with you now that everything is behind us. Hiding a flaw or a past mistake is not worth the risk of losing you forever. ** _”_**

Vanora realizes too late just how intimate what she’s said is, but doesn’t let on to how surprised she is at the words that she’s just spoken. Focusing instead on his question she smiles and shakes her head. The small ball of fire is extinguished in the blink of an eye, a little smoke in the air the only trace that it had been present at all. Stifling a smile Vanora turns her palms again, moving to lace their fingers together once more.

**_“_** Not at all, I’ve trained in several different disciplines, ** _”_** she answers, conjuring up a tiny hint of electricity on the tips of her fingers. Instead of lacing her fingers through his again she stops short, touching her fingertips to his with a smile, the tingling in her fingers passing to his with the contact.

**_“_** Of the elemental disciplines, electricity is my favorite, ** _”_** Vanora admits, almost smirking like a naughty child who’d just played a prank,  ** _“_** But I thought a little glowing ball of light might be less intimidating than a tiny tempest in your hand..and more interesting than a cube of ice. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

The way she controls the flame even though it’s not directly above her hand is impressive to him, and he wonders if she could do that from any distance, or if it’s because her hands are still framing his one, on either side of the flame as well.

Her words, however, make him look up from the magic fire and search her face. Though they had reconciled after both of their secrets had been dragged out into the open, it was clearly still raw by the tone of her voice. It was still raw for him, too. And what she said– _the end of us_ –shakes a chord somewhere along the sides of his lungs, rattles around in his chest and makes his heart beat faster. A battalion of words fill his head, things he wasn’t sure he wanted to say, or quite how to say them, or even if he should, but before he can decide anything, she saves the conversation from veering any further into dangerous ground by snuffing the flame hovering above his hand.

Startled out of his focus on what she said, he jumps a little at the smoke now curling up and dissipating. She controlled it so easily–half of him is heartened and comforted by this skill and restraint, and half of him was mildly still frightened of it. To wield such a control and power over the elements, to have them at beck and call, it is amazing and also highlights just how vulnerable he is in the face of such things. If she truly wanted to, what could he do to stop it

Because of trust. Trust is what makes him not fear her, not worry that she would set him aflame or try to hurt him or control him. If he didn’t know her better, and was of a more paranoid nature, Maretus might have suspected she intentionally kept her magic from him to get him to trust her implicitly first before using it against him. But, they’ve been through too much for him to even entertain that as a plausibility–and besides, what would she have to gain from it? He has no connections back to Tevinter, no connections to anything worthwhile anywhere else in Thedas.

Her hand moves again, shifting the fading smoke and turning as if to entwine with his again, and very suddenly his heart is in his throat. When her fingertips touch his with a tingle, it takes a good deal of self control to not snatch his hand away out of surprise. It didn’t hurt, but he wasn’t expecting it. For a moment, his eyebrows furrow in confusion at her fingers, but then when she explains, a smile grows across his mouth and he presses the pads of his fingers against hers, looking up at her.

“I think the cube of ice would have surprised me the most,” he says. “Considering how cold your hands always are. But… you can control the intensity of the electricity, I imagine? I suppose so, since I wasn’t shocked to death just now.” A soft, amused snort accompanies his words.

But then his face falls more serious again. “It… It makes me feel vulnerable. Not understanding, not being able to defend myself against it, not being able to really anticipate it. Even working and fighting with mages in the Legion and beyond, I was trained to be able to spot certain triggers, certain marks that aggressive spells were about to be cast…” He pauses. “But it was never entirely certain, and it always made me nervous.”

“I’m not one to trust others easily, nor in blanket terms, but…” He speaks slowly, choosing each word as carefully as mild inebriation allows him to, and he rotates their touching hands again so that his is now palm-up beneath hers. “I trust you. I can’t say that alone will make me feel more at ease with other mages or altus, but it certainly will give me pause before immediately disregarding or distrusting them.”

As soon as he says the words, he realizes that sharing this tenuous moment with her makes him feel just as vulnerable as magic does, if not more–and not because of her magic.  


* * *

Admittedly Vanora is impressed that Maretus doesn’t jump or flinch or snatch his hand away. It was a little devious to shock his fingers without warning. The ball of fire was warm, but it never touched his skin. Physical sensation through the skin, particularly when unwarned, was another thing entirely. All those years of honing his self-control have clearly paid off, working even now when he’s a bit intoxicated. Enjoying the feel of magic under her skin again she lets more electricity accumulate at her fingertips, thrumming and vibrating but not transferring into Maretus’ fingers. They’re touching, and he can doubtlessly feel the warp in the energy between them, the way the air seems to tremble, but the tingling stays locked away under her skin. 

His acceptance, his trust in her to show him what she could do without hurting him, rings deep in her chest. Though he might have been afraid, and reasonably so, he trusted her enough to not snatch his hand away or stand up and close himself off. A part of her wants to show off a bit, to create that tiny tempest in his hand or the cube of ice that he thinks would be more surprising than her fire, but she doesn’t need to peacock in front of him, nor does she want to overwhelm him with so much magic in such a small time. Even though they’re little displays of her power, minuscule compared to what she might use in a real fight, it’s a lot to take in for someone who’s never been so close to it before.

**_"_** Frost magic never was my favorite…that shouldn’t surprise you. Anyway, the fire is much prettier. And yes, I can control the intensity of it. ** _”_**

Tracing her fingertips down his fingers, swirling her index finger across his palm in a knot pattern, she slides them back up to his fingertips again, smiling up at him. This is what it meant to be truly close to someone, to trust and be trusted in return, and it makes her all warm inside. She likes it more than she can understand or put into words, and she wonders briefly how her parents could have been so cold towards close relationships when they felt this good. If she’s being honest she understands well the dangers of such closeness in her world back home, but who cared? The thought is merely a passing whisper in the back of her mind.

But the light tone shifts and Maretus grows more serious, more contemplative. Vanora worries that perhaps she has misspoken, or that he is less comfortable with this than he’s letting on. Yet she hears nothing in his words that suggest there is anything wrong with her or what she’s done, just a bearing of truth, an explanation of his relationship with magic. Pursing her lips Vanora nods. She can’t understand it from a personal perspective, she’d never had to fight another mage before, but she can understand how it would make him feel vulnerable. Maretus feeling vulnerable is a strange thought. It was only human to feel vulnerable, but he was so strong, so capable, that it was something that had never crossed her mind. To face down an opponent you could never be certain what their next move would be, but at least in physical combat, Maretus knew how to counter said attacks. It was less easy to do so against a mage–dodging, staying on your feet and blocking with a shield when possible was about it. Until you could get up close. It was where most mages faltered, their strength lying in their ranged attacks. Being taught to defend themselves with their staff, to use it as a weapon when pressed, wasn’t something that was done in the upper echelons of Tevinter society.

He is not done surprising her yet, his words tugging at her heart and bringing a gentle smile back onto her lips.  _Trust_. Such a small simple word that carried so much weight. There was nothing simple about the construct of trust. Vanora finds that her throat is tightening up the way it might if she was trying not to cry, but she feels no tears prickling at the edges of her eyes. Now she laces her fingers through his, the tingling energy in her skin gone, and she squeezes his hand gently, eyes fixed on his face. He looks uncertain yet focused, choosing his words carefully.

**_“_** I consider myself exceptionally lucky to have earned your trust…it is not something easily earned. You have more than earned my trust. As for the others of my kind, it is good enough to know they might not be immediately dismissed. ** _”_**

Brightening her smile Vanora leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper,  ** _“_** But, I admit I am selfish, and I am more relieved to hear you trust me than that you will be more open-minded towards other mages. But to hear both is remarkable indeed. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

Even with his mistrust, his fear of magic, it did not make his hand tremble when she conjured fire between their joint palms. Even when she surprised him with a tingle of electricity from her fingertips to his, he did not tremble. What makes his hand shake just the smallest amount, though, is when she traces some spiraling design on his palm with her finger.

It makes his mouth turn inexplicably dry, and the breath heavy through his nose.

Is this how close friendships feel? Is this nervous heat coiling inside him usual? No, Maretus is no fool, and he fears he knows all to well what the hammering pulse in his chest is. He hopes desperately that she can’t feel or hear the shuddering of each of his heartbeats from her proximity, only the space of a small breath away.

It wouldn’t take much to just lean in, to close the distance. His heart thuds in his ears.

Now her fingers do properly lace through his again, and she gives his hand a squeeze and speaks of her luck.

Acting on impulse, caught up in the echo of his heart and blood and the intimacy of the moment between them, Maretus lifts her hand and presses a kiss against the backs of her fingers, lingering there perhaps longer than was necessary.

“It is not a matter of luck,” he tells her, startling himself with how rough his voice suddenly is. “You’ve earned it, and I am immensely honored to have earned yours in return.”

At her whispered confession to him, a short and soft laugh escapes the confines of his chest, making his breath a little lighter, if not calming his heart. “I think, in this instance, it’s perfectly acceptable to be a little selfish,” he answers back to her in a low voice.  


* * *

Vanora’s heart stops, just for a split second, and then resumes beating at a faster rate than normal. Eyes widening slightly as Maretus’ lips brush against her fingers her lips part slightly in an unspoken ‘oh’ of surprise. It’s as though with one small gesture Maretus has managed to make her body forget exactly how to work in synch. She can feel heat tinging her cheeks pink but hopes she can pass it off as the alcohol still coloring her face. This exchange had been the most private, sincere one they’d ever had… or perhaps that Vanora had  _ever_  had. Nobody had kissed her hand and elicited such an immediate physical reaction. She knows it isn’t the wine, though it would be infinitely easier to blame it on her intoxication and move on. The heat in her cheeks seems to be matched by one in her chest, the light fluttering feeling reflected now in the beat of her calming heart. 

What had gotten into her?

No, she believes that she already knows the answer to that question, although she refuses to give it voice. It brings too many complications, too much uncertainty… too much fear. But she can’t stop herself from reacting, her fingers squeezing around his when he lowers her hand. Closing her lips back together so as not to be staring at him her calm smile returns to her face. It seems that her little comment will provide them both a way to lighten the mood, if only a smidge. 

**_“_** Excellent, it has been a while since I’ve been selfish. Being selfish when it comes to your affection seems a good reason to break the habit, ** _”_**  she replies, eyes widening just a hair when she realizes she’s used the word affection instead of friendship. She hadn’t intended to, but there it was, the unconscious truth hiding beneath her consciousness.

They are so close, the room silent except for the crackling of the fire. Everything seems to be quieter and slower. Leaning forward she rests her forehead against his, swallowing to try and loosen her throat and ease the dryness that has formed there.

**_“_** I shall be eternally grateful that we met and that after all this we are still so close, stronger even for moving through it all, ** _”_**  she murmurs, her voice the quietest of whispers, afraid that speaking too loudly will shatter the little bubble that has formed in this moment.  


* * *

What is going on between them? His mind races almost as fast as his heart is beating. They are sitting alone in his room with nothing but a fire beside them, sharing murmured confessions and admissions that he would never have dreamt he’d say to a living soul in his life. She’s being so candid with him–and he her–that it makes him nervous. Wild thoughts start spiraling through his head, none of them remotely possible. Perhaps if she wasn’t an altus, wasn’t ever planning on going back to Tevinter… but no. Even as far from Tevinter as they were right now, he felt all the lines they shouldn’t cross laying out before them.

But her words, everything she says ripples through him like so many stones dropping into a lake, upsetting the surface and sinking down to settle amid all the other unsorted debris beneath. The words  _sound_  like everything he wants, everything that makes a bolt of fear shoot through him, everything that’s been tangled up into knots since Septimus’ letter.

Everything he wouldn’t,  _couldn’t_  admit. Names give things power, and this is not something that should have any. Better to let it all sink to the bottom and lay to rest there, for all the good that it would ever do.

His heartbeat stutters and his breath catches when she leans her forehead against his, and he never thought that quiet, physical contact with her could bring him so much pleasure as it does. Maretus takes the time to close his eyes, the murmur of her voice drifting around his face like sweet smoke.

“I have never had as good a companion as you,” he answers back to her, matching the hush of her voice. “I am glad neither of us was lost to the other.”

Almost wishing to say more, Maretus decides to hold his tongue, feeling that anything more he might add would be nonsensical or simply rambling at this point. Instead, he draws in a shaky breath and lets it out slowly, willing his heart to calm. He is the first to draw back, disengaging his fingers from hers at the same time and bringing his now-free hand to rake back through his hair.

“Ah,” he begins, finding that he is unable to look her in the face, and unsure as to why, “I–I’ll be right back. Need to… Well, I think all the beer and wine is finally hitting me.” A flimsy excuse, but not entirely an untrue one. He stands, the wooden legs of the chair scraping and echoing remarkably loudly through the quiet of the room. He winces at the sudden noise, apologizes for it, and then awkwardly extracts himself from the room toward the water closet that sat in a small enclosed section through the bathing room.

He really did have to relieve himself, and it gives him some time to try and clear his head. Alcohol and Vanora are heady combination, and he takes more time than necessary to collect his composure before returning.  


* * *

No matter how much she would like it they cannot stay like this forever. Everything is quiet and warm, hands locked together, foreheads pressed against one another with whispers fading into pleasant silence. He is the only one who she could sit with for hours in silence and be comfortable with. It was just how they were. Silence, except for special exceptions, had never been an issue between them. It was so easy being around him, being together, that it worried Vanora. But in another breath they pull apart, Maretus withdrawing completely from her. Vanora is immediately colder and with each breath of fresh air she begins to process the salience of what has just transpired.

All she can manage is a nod as Maretus gets up with an excuse to leave the room. Before she would have pinned it on him genuinely not liking her, but she can’t use that as an excuse at this point. He’d said he trusted her, that he was they had made it through this all together, so she was left to deal with the fact that something had driven him away. If they’d stayed there much longer, however, Vanora was sure that she would have pulled away as well. There was only so much closeness of this nature that she could tolerate, especially when it is so foreign and confusing.

Just like this moment had to end so too would their time together. She would head North and have to leave him behind. The very thought of leaving him sends an icy dagger right to her heart and she regrets letting herself trail off into this line of thought. What is wrong with her brain? It’s foggy from the liquor and yet awake and sharp from all the confessions. Still, there’s an element of it all that makes her want to smile lazily and just bask in the closeness. 

Yawning, Vanora leans back in the heavy chair. What time is it? It’s so dark that she wouldn’t be able to name the hour anyway, but it had to be late. They hadn’t left the tavern until quite late, and she knew they’d been talking a long while. For how long exactly she couldn’t say, but it had been a very long evening. She barely stifles another yawn, turning her head so that her cheek could rest on the edge of the chair. It was nice and warm in the room and although the chair wasn’t the softest she is tired enough that it feels comfortable enough to fall asleep in.

But she can’t pass out. They still have sleeping arrangements to deal with. For a moment she debates taking control and curling up by the fire but decides that she can wait a while until Maretus is back. Though, ultimately, she wasn’t keen on taking over his bed and making him sleep elsewhere. She could happily fall asleep in the armchair. Focusing on the fire Vanora wills herself to keep her eyes open, watching the way the flames shift and move, her mind immediately trailing off to the way that Maretus looked at the little flame in wonder. The memory dispels the chill of her earlier line of thought regarding their inevitable separation, and she smiles sleepily. Although Vanora tries valiantly to stay awake her lids grow heavy and soon she slips off into the land of dreams.  


* * *

Once Maretus feels relatively steady with himself again, his breath coming normally, his heartbeat no longer threatening to burst forth from his chest, he returns to his main quarters where Vanora waited before the fire.

The chair is tilted to face the crackling hearth, and she sits still and quiet in the chair, leaning against it. A sudden pang of guilt goes through him. He knows he took longer than he needed, but he hopes it wasn’t too long and he left her worried or bored for all that while.

“Sorry,” he begins, rejoining her and moving to sit in his desk chair once again, but then cuts himself short when he sees her eyes are closed and her breathing deeper than usual. Maretus has traveled with her more than enough to recognize when she’s sleeping.

His face softens, watching her a moment. Faint worry lines that are normally present on her face during the day have all smoothed out, and one hand is curled protectively beneath her chin, propping it up against the flared wingback of the chair. Without noticing, a smile spreads fondly across his face, softening his features with affection.

She looked as if she fit in here, partially curled up in his chair with the firelight making her skin glow. As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he shakes his head to dismiss it. Such fancies would only lead him toward greater regret when she finally went back home. Reminding himself of that fact helped sober him a bit, and he lets out a quiet breath.

Well, at least now he wouldn’t have to argue with her about giving her the bed, and so picks up his desk chair and sets it a bit further away, gently as he can to prevent any sudden sounds. Stepping back over to her sleeping form in the chair, he bends and carefully slides his arms beneath her legs and behind her back, slowly drawing her against his chest before standing, doing his utmost not to wake her in the process.  


* * *

Although sleep comes quickly Vanora is not so deeply asleep that she is completely dead to the world. She doesn’t hear the door open or close, nor is she aware of Maretus speaking to her. There is no way that she could see the look on his face, though she would have treasured it fondly, and so she remains completely unaware of what’s going on around her.

It is only when Maretus picks her up from the chair, carrying her out of the little living area, that she becomes vaguely aware of herself. There is a brief moment as she realizes that she’s fallen asleep, but before her mind can register that she’s thinking anything at all she’s back to dozing off. The groggy part of her mind that’s still trying to keep her awake faintly registers that Maretus is back, that they have to figure out the sleeping arrangements, but the voice is quieted as sleep continues to win out against all else in her mind.

Is she is Maretus’ arms? She doesn’t remember, but wherever she is she is comfortable. Something solid and warm rests against half of her body and she turns her face towards it, cheek pressed up against it as she makes a quiet noise of contentment. Wrapped up as she is Vanora feels safe, as though she’s been tucked away in a warm corner, though she is only vaguely aware of the arms around her. Her hand shifts, knotting loosely in the fabric near her face, and her consciousness fades again for a few moments.

When she feels herself moving, her body being lowered onto something soft but distinctly cooler than where she’d been before, she whines, a faint, discontent noise, turning towards where the warmth had been a moment ago only to find it gone. Something is pulled up around her body, fabric maybe, but it isn’t warm either. Still, she holds it closer to her body, lids flickering as her eyes almost open before they fall solidly shut and her mind goes dark. This time nothing wakes her up and she is left to sleep peacefully for the rest of the night.  


* * *

Once she is gathered up in his arms and securely against his chest, she shifts, making small, quiet noises and he freezes, afraid he’s woken her. But she merely turns her face to rest against him and curls her fingers into the fabric that resides in the gap between his jerkin’s clasps. He relaxes as she does so again, her breathing steadying once more.

It’s a short distance from the hearth back to his bed proper, and she is solid, but not heavy enough to give him any difficulty in carrying her. In fact, she fits uncannily well in his arms, he finds himself thinking. While a good portion of him wants to follow this little fanciful trail of thought more, he shuts it down, feeling it would be disingenuous to her to do so.

So he gently deposits her on his bed instead, removing her shoes and then shifting her delicately around until he can draw the blankets up over her. She automatically reaches for them, a faint unhappy sound coming from her, but then her face smooths out again and she lays still. Lingering a moment longer to watch her and resisting the urge to brush his fingers along the side of her cheek, Maretus drags himself away to see to the fire, sitting in front of it a while longer and staring into the flames. They are hypnotic, now that he is alone in the quiet of the room, and he feels his own eyelids starting to feel heavy.

Some time later, he snaps awake to a much colder room, still very dark, with only glowing embers in the hearth and his cold feet stretched out before him. His neck aches from being in a single awkward position for too long, and his knees protest being so uncomfortably extended all the while.

What was he doing out here so late? His head pounded a bit, and he thinks he might have had too much to drink, stayed up too late talking with Vanora–did he kiss her hand? Or was that a dream?–but grogginess fogs his mind overmuch, and he can’t truly recall what could have been dream and what wasn’t. Grunting softly and shivering, he pushes himself up out of the chair and shuffles through the dark rooms to his bed. Mechanically, he undresses, hanging up his leather jerkin in its familiar spot by his wardrobe, leaving his boots beside it, as well. He shrugs out of his clothes from the day and quickly redresses in a thicker woolen tunic and softer pants and socks, then slides wearily beneath his blankets.

If something feels different, out of place, his tired mind doesn’t register it as such. A warm, albeit somewhat smaller mass rests beside him on the bed, and he shifts closer to it, still feeling too cold. Once he’s flush against the warmth, he sighs, smelling a gentle sweetness and nestling his nose against a softness he doesn’t question but makes him think pleasant things, and tucks his arms around the mass, as if to ensure it stays warmly against him to ward off the cold.

He drifts swiftly back into sleep, thinking of Vanora in a garden filled with lavender and herbs.  



	5. Chapter 5

**v.**

Vanora sleeps peacefully that night, neither dreams nor nightmares to wake her from her restful slumber. Whether it is from the alcohol, her conversation with Maretus, or the company she has in bed isn’t clear. It is the faint, far-off sound of people talking that first creeps into Vanora’s consciousness. Initially, it barely registers, but once she isn’t completely asleep Vanora can’t help but notice it more. Why did the healers have to be so noisy this early in the morning? If she was awake she would mutter to herself, but she’s still very much asleep, her mind only just aware of the world around her.

Dozing off for a while Vanora is once again stirred by voices. Waking up a bit more than last time she becomes aware of the heavy pounding in her head. Damn, she had drunk far too much last night, but that’s all she remember right away. Everything from the conversations to the magic to the hand holding still rests deeper in her waking mind. What she is aware of, only vaguely, is that there is something solid and warm near her, almost wrapped around her and that she is very content to go back to sleep. So, more than happy to ignore the faint voices, she nuzzles into the warmth, getting as close as she can, and settling into her new spot.

Once more she fades out of consciousness, but this time she feels more awake. The voices are still there, but now she can hear people talking and register that there are several people in multiple places having conversations that she’s overhearing. Granted, she doesn’t register what they’re saying at all, but that’s hardly the point. Vanora is still pleasantly warm, pressed up against the main source of the heat, and wrapped up in blankets that are almost drawn up past her nose. It’s a much better wake-up experience than she’s had in her entire time with the Inquisition. Eyes still closed Vanora takes a deep breath, trying to prepare herself to fully wake up, and is surprised to find that the air doesn’t smell like the tower. If she were in her room then there would be the faint smell of herbs and the lavender she kept in her room. But there was no such smell. If anything the air smelled like leather and something so familiar… but she didn’t have a name for it. 

It is only when her cozy heat spot moves that Vanora becomes aware of where she is. Gradually she begins to realize that the source of her warmth is too solid to be a pillow that she’s accidentally moved from its usual spot beneath her head. Furthermore, there are more spots under the covers that are warm and very much not blankets. Daring to crack her eyes open just a bit she is startled to realize why the air smells different and just what the source of the heat is.

_Maretus?!_

Vanora’s heart skips a beat and her stomach drops low in her belly. What was going on? Maker, how did she end up in bed with Maretus? Quickly she tries to recall how they’d ended up in bed together. They were both dressed, so… that ruled out the first option. It takes a minute to remember that she’d fallen asleep in his chair when he’d left the room to relieve himself. He must have carried her over to bed whenever he’d returned. That still didn’t explain why he was there as well. Not that Vanora had a problem with her bedfellow, indeed it was very much the opposite, but she couldn’t see Maretus willingly jumping into bed with her when she was already unconscious. It didn’t seem gentlemanly.

Taking another slow breath to steady her heart and keep herself from getting too worried about everything, Vanora realizes that there is a more immediate problem than figuring out how she ended up in bed with Maretus. They aren’t sleeping simply curled up next to one another. Oh no, that would have been too easy to handle. Couldn’t have her slipping out of bed and sneaking away. No, they’re very much entangled. Pressed flush against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, one arm is draped over his side while the other is partially beneath her, the palm of it pressed against his torso. One of his arms rests across her hips, and as Vanora shifts, she realizes that it doesn’t end there. No, no, their legs are also a mess. While one of hers lays where it ought to be beneath her the leg atop it has wormed closer to Maretus.  _Too_  close in fact. Somehow she’s managed to worm her leg between his, the limb hitched up so that her knee rests just beneath his, her ankle hooked over his calf.

Now how is she supposed to get out of this? Her heart is beating out of control, but it’s not entirely because she’s worried about her escape. If she was being brutally honest Vanora was content to spend however much time wrapped up like this as possible. If in some strange parallel universe Maretus wanted to lay in bed all day she would have absolutely no qualms about it… and the thought surprises her. So, despite the challenge of what would happen when Maretus woke up and had to disentangle himself from her, Vanora buries her face back into his chest and waits. If she’s lucky she can pretend to be asleep for a little… but no matter how much she fakes it they’re still going to have to get out of bed, and Maker help her it was going to be awkward. Waking up to Maretus was shocking enough without having to look him in the face when he’s awake and try not to make saying good morning sound as though they’d done this on purpose.  


* * *

Sleep for Maretus that night after he crawls into his bed is solid and restful. He dreams, but they’re fleeting and he won’t remember any upon waking.

At some point around dawn he drifts close to waking, reality mixing together with some dream. The warmth that was there when he went to bed is still there, breathing softly and lying on its side. He rolls to match it, curling around it and gathering it close against him. His nose burrows into soft hair, and he makes a quiet noise. Does he always have someone else to sleep against? In his half asleep mind, he cannot recall and it doesn’t matter. They’re warm and soft and fit very nicely beneath his arm, and some distant part of him wonders if he should get up, if he should decide whether this was normal or not, but the sweet, familiar scent beneath his nose lulls him back to slumber.

When he wakes again, it is just as slowly, and the light is much brighter and warmer than the early morning sun, though he hasn’t yet opened his eyes. It’s much later than his normal rising time, and he can hear several distant Inquisition soldiers chatting with each other as they go about their morning routines further away in the barracks proper. Normally he’d be up with breakfast and working on paperwork by the time the other soldiers started, but this morning he is loathe to get out of bed.

A strange weight presses against his side, shifting very slightly and burrowing into his chest. His arm is looped around this weight, resting on a firm curve, which he curls his fingers around and finds to feel much like a hipbone. Thoughts sluggish still, it slowly dawns on him that this is a very unusual circumstance, and so he remains still while he wakens further to gather his thoughts. As the fog of grogginess dissipates, he thinks back on the night through a growing headache.

_Vanora_.

He’d been drinking the night away with Vanora, and carried her back here when she fell asleep in his reading chair. Then had fallen asleep out there himself, and came back to bed, forgetting it was already occupied in his half-asleep state at the time.

Then, that meant–

The warm mass he’d curled up around, the weight pressing against his side and partially draped over him is Vanora.

Instantly his heart leaps up to his throat and he knows that, pressed up against him as much as she is, she could with certainty hear and feel the sudden jump in his heartbeats. He could hold himself perfectly still as if he was still sleeping, but he couldn’t control the stuttering thuds of his heart. Maretus is sure it gives him away.

He is dragged completely into waking by this point, head throbbing from too much sweet wine, and realizes that they are far more entangled than merely leaning against one another. One of her legs hooks over his thigh, her knee resting between his and her ankle crossed over one of his, and the proximity of her hips to his causes another, immediate visceral reaction that he has as little control over as his heartbeat. Heat rushes into his neck and cheeks and he’d much rather her notice his rapid heartbeat than that, and so shifts, slowly at first, to reposition himself so she is less likely to accidentally discover anything he wouldn’t want her to.

Now that he’s fully awake, he notices her breathing is different than when she’s asleep, that she had to be awake as well. The fact that she hasn’t tried to surreptitiously extricate herself from against him probably meant she was just as surprised as he to find themselves tangled so thoroughly with one another. And the blame of all that was on him–he hadn’t remembered she was already in his bed when he woke in the middle of the night and inadvertently joined her. And the sprawling way he slept, he was sure their current entanglement was also probably of his unconscious initiation. It could be that all he can hope for at this point is to convince her he wasn’t trying to take some sort of advantage of her, though them both being fully clothes would help somewhat with that.

He knows, he  _knows_  he should be the first to say something, to start removing himself from beneath her. He  _knows_  he should move away, but he doesn’t. She’s warm and comfortable against him, one of her hands pressed against his ribs, her face tucked just below his collarbone. His hand is indeed resting on a hipbone as he suspected earlier–her hipbone–and his fingers want to grip it again of their own free will, but he’s awake enough now to stop them this time. But still he doesn’t move.

How in the Void was he going to explain such a compromising situation to her?  


* * *

The heavy, rapid beating of Maretus’ heart is what alerts Vanora to his waking. Nobody sleeping peacefully would have that quick a heart rate. It seems that Maretus is equally as shocked as she was to find himself tangled up in her limbs. She recalls him mentioning that he sprawled out in his sleep, but the way that she’s clinging to him, limbs all knotting up in his, makes it clear that it isn’t his sprawling that’s gotten them into this position. Sure, maybe it played a role in their legs getting twisted together, but they’re too close together. Sprawling out would have meant pushing away from her, wouldn’t it? 

Incrementally his heartbeat slows, only slightly, and she can feel him shift slightly. Too busy taking notice of where all her limbs had ended up Vanora hadn’t thought about much else, but when Maretus shifts she is instantly reminded that this sort of closeness means  _everything_  is pressed together, all the way down to her hips. Keeping herself from swallowing heavily she scrunches her eyes tighter together. Her head is right up against his chest, so Vanora can hear perfectly well the rate at which Maretus’ heart is beating, and she can only hope that it’s going so fast he can’t hear her own. What a mess this is.

Subconsciously she’s a bit annoyed that he’s woken up so quickly, that she didn’t have time to lay there and soak it all up a little longer, but the forefront of her mind is concerned with what to do now. There was no sneaking away with their limbs all tangled together, and now that he’s awake there’s no chance of getting out of this without confrontation of some sort. A minute passes, Vanora taking the time to gather up her wits. She had been in more difficult situations before, granted they had been of another nature entirely, but she could handle this. She had to be able to handle this. Maretus certainly wasn’t suave enough to extract himself and try to play it all off as nothing out of the ordinary. If she was more self-centered she would have been anxious and nervous and letting it all take over her mind. No matter how nervous and out of sorts Maretus makes her feel she can’t just wallow in her own anxiety, she isn’t weak and she won’t just lay around like a scared mouse. 

Knowing that he’s just as uncomfortable and uncertain how to handle this, or at least refusing to acknowledge any other possibility, Vanora focuses, doing her best to ignore all her nerves. She draws up a memory of her first days in the Circle when the students of her class realized how young she was. No matter how prepared she had been it was nerve-wracking to face them all down the first time. She had done it, and they’d been smart enough to step away from her, but it hadn’t been easy the first time. The fact that she has to remind herself repeatedly that she’s perfectly capable of handling this is a testament to the fact that she is well out of her comfort zone. Dealing with physical intimacy is way beyond her realm of expertise.

**_“_** Good morning, ** _”_**  she finally says, voice muffled against his chest, her heart racing. She lets the words hang in the air, giving Maretus time to realize that she’s awake if he hasn’t already. Drawing in a slow, deep breath in a futile attempt to calm her heart she musters up the courage to draw back from the safety of his chest. Inching her head far enough away from his ribs so that she can glance up, chin pressed against his chest instead, she offers him an uncharacteristically timid smile. At this point, all she can do is lay still and wait while praying to whatever deities might exist to make this all pass without too much painful awkwardness.  


* * *

His mind is whirling with options–all of them ridiculous-sounding and unviable–but it occurs to him that there is no small part of him that is enjoying this. Around the severe awkwardness of the situation, the nervousness about it, he is… quite comfortable. Beyond the usual scents of lavender and medicinal herbs that accompanies here, she smells of warmth and a sleepy scent of skin that purely belongs to her. It’s a combination that coils heat deep in his stomach even with his embarrassment.

While they both lie there, very obviously neither sleeping any longer, but also neither speaking up, he finds himself wondering just what it would be like if this had been an intentional situation. If there was no awkwardness involved, if they both… wanted this. He could easily imagine lazing in bed with her, seeing her hair unbraided and down around her shoulders, her fingers trailing along his chest in some winding design that he can suddenly recall her doing against his palm the previous night. He lets out a slow breath, questioning the wisdom of allowing such thoughts space to percolate under such circumstances.

When she speaks into his chest, he starts a little. Maretus wasn’t expecting it, and he is unguarded and unable to refrain from a physical reaction. His fingers tighten around her hip in surprise and his heart skips again. Lifting her chin to rest it against his chest and look up at him, he swallows at the sight of her small smile. What a mess he’s created here. What can he even say in return?

“I–morning,” he manages, the rough scrape of his voice catching him off guard as much as her quiet one. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “This… is a bit awkward.”

Feeling heat creep back up his cheekbones, he rests his head back against his pillow, unable to meet her eyes.

“I… It’s not–” He swallows again. “I-I think I can explain this.”  


* * *

Unarmed by her sudden speech Maretus physically jolts, his grip tightening on her hip, a reaction that he would have likely resisted had he been expecting her to say anything at all. Absently Vanora wonders how long they would have laid here in silence before Maretus spoke up. Maybe she  _should_  have just stayed quiet and enjoyed a comfortable, late morning in bed. With Maretus. The very thought of those words together makes her skin tingle pleasantly. When he responds his voice is scratchy and rough from sleep and she is surprised to find that it’s rather… appealing. 

Maretus’ mind seems to kick into gear then and, predictably, he stumbles over his words, trying to get out a plausible explanation that doesn’t make the situation any more awkward. But Vanora isn’t expecting anything more from him–words weren’t his strong suit. Careful, delicately worded statements are more her forte, but this having just awoken in a very strange situation with a hangover certainly made wording things a challenge.  
As he tries to explain away the little mess they’re in Vanora has to bite down on her lower lip to keep from giggling. He looks nervous and uncomfortable enough that he drops his head back on the pillow to avoid looking at her. Vanora’s stifled laughter settles down into a smile and, figuring that there was no harm in it, she rests her head back against his chest.

**_"_** It’s alright, there’s no need to explain. I did say I trusted you, didn’t I? You aren’t the sort of person who sneaks into bed with a woman with some sort of nefarious purpose. ** _”_**

Feeling a bit braver knowing that he’s just as thrown off as she is Vanora adds,  ** _“_** Anyway, despite the surprise it was a rather nice way to wake up. ** _”_**

Tipping her head up to look at him, though she can only see the side of his face at an angle, she asks,  ** _“_** Would you like me to leave? ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

Beneath her head, his heart thuds still, only encouraged by the fact that she rests  _back down_  on his chest. Under any light this looks like every situation other than the more or less innocent one that it truly is. Especially given the fact that not a few minutes before her reassuring him that she trusted he hadn’t snuck into bed with less-than-honorable intentions, he had been entertaining thoughts precisely along those lines. Well–nothing that wouldn’t have included her consent, but the thoughts weren’t exactly innocent, either.

“No.” The reply is immediate, his voice adamant as he lifts his head again to look down at her. “I would never do that–least of all to someone I– to you. It… I fell asleep, and when I woke, I forgot you were already in here.”

He’s about to sheepishly explain more, when she continues with her thought, and his mouth snaps shut and his chest inflates with a sudden breath drawn in through his nose.  _A nice way to wake?_  She was… enjoying this? He thought for sure that she would be mortified, wanting to extract herself as quickly as possible and be on her way. He would have considered it a win if she still wanted to speak with him after all this, and now she’s saying she…

His mouth dry and his head throbbing still, he releases the breath he’d drawn in, chest sinking back down to normal, head falling back on the pillow again. His thoughts are getting away from him, scattering too far one way or another.

“It…” he says slowly, quietly, “it is nice.”

To her question, however, he doesn’t answer right away. Maretus holds himself still, working to keep his breathing calm. For her to not mind waking up in such a compromised state is one thing, but to willingly stay even after they’d confirmed with one another it was an accident…

Perhaps she was merely being polite. He was a bundle of nerves, emotions in various states of disarray, wanting simultaneously to sink into the mattress of his bed and vanish from embarrassment of the faux pas of climbing into bed with someone who trusted him and was a dear friend, and wanting to grasp her hip again and turn to her and see what other things she might consider nice.

He knows he’s been silent in responding for too long, but his voice catches somewhere in his throat. Swallowing again, he lets out a soft, shaky breath, shifting his arm just a little to settle better against her now that she’s shifted against him in a different position.

“…. No, I don’t.”

* * *

 

This time she doesn’t bite down on her laugh, the quiet noise escaping her lips with a smile.  


**_"_** I can hardly blame you for that. It was very late, and we’d had plenty to drink. Why should you remember I was in here? At least this way we didn’t have to argue over who was going to sleep where… ** _”_**

It really was a win-win when Vanora thinks about it. Despite her racing heart and the heat she can feel coloring her cheeks, Vanora dares to relax a little. The tension that had coiled in her chest when she’d let slip that she had in fact enjoyed waking up in bed with him releases when Maretus agrees that it is nice to wake up with her around. Even though they both had their share of surprise.

She’s still pressed up against him, arm still draped over his torso, leg still hitched up over his. When she asks if he’d prefer her to leave Vanora spends a moment figuring out how best to extricate herself. Legs first, she decides, so that she can move and sit up without grinding her hips against his. Immediately her cheeks flush at the mere idea, her belly tightening as she blinks away the image. With her legs free she could easily slip out of his arms and sit up. 

But he doesn’t want her to go. Her heart skips a beat and she stops breathing for a moment. If she was being honest with herself a part of Vanora had wanted him to tell her to stay, but she had expected that with their greetings and forgiveness exchanged that he would be ready to send her on her way. Making a quiet humming noise to acknowledge his answer Vanora turns her face into his chest to stifle a yawn before turning back to rest her cheek against him. For now, she is content to lay there, all tangled up, the blanket covering them, and ignore the world outside a while longer.

Vanora wonders what it will be like meeting him for dinner tonight. She suspects that they’ll never bring this morning up again, and it brings with it a pang of disappointment. It was easier to just ignore it, to pass it off as a fluke and a strange morning born of too much alcohol. But if it had just been the alcohol then wouldn’t they both be rushing to get away from one another? It’s all messy and confusing, much easier to just lay there and pretend that this will all iron itself out with a bit of time.

**_"_** You know, I always pictured you as someone who snores, even though you never did on that disastrous trip…” she mused, looking back up to him. Unless she had slept like the dead, which was entirely possible after so much alcohol, then he hadn’t snored at all. Did she snore? She didn’t think so, and she’d never been told by anyone that she did. Then again nobody at home would have dared say that…well, perhaps Felix or Julia. It’s strange that Maretus’ propensity to snore or not to snore is a topic on her mind; it seems so inane, and yet here she is wondering why she’d imagined him to be someone who snored.  


* * *

It’s strange and somehow different, though their positions are almost exactly the same as they were, but now that he’s admitted out loud that he doesn’t want her to leave, and she’s implied it by asking and then resettling after he answered her. Before, he could have blamed their continued entanglement on not sure the other was awake, on not knowing quite how to handle the situation, on nervousness–something that might explain it away.

But now…

Now it’s become an intentional arrangement. A wanted one. And, somehow, that alone makes a while new set of jumbled thoughts form in his head. It’s a different kind of nervousness that comes with that. What does it mean? Does it stop merely with sleeping next to one another? They’d done it before, on the road, but that is unstated an entirely different situation. There was reason for it out in the open on a frigid night. Certainly not so much in Maretus’ rooms.

He’d like to not think about these things, to keep everything easy and simple and not wonder about them. But he does. With Vanora’s leg still hooked over his own, the entirety of her body pressed flush and supple against him, Maretus cannot deny that he enjoys it, that he enjoys her presence there. Now that there is no immediate threat on their lives, or unpleasant familial circumstances to worry about, now that there is no anger or fear of just learning each other’s long-kept secrets to busy their minds and occupy their time and thoughts, Maretus fears there is no choice left but to untangle what has been held at bay beneath all those other problems all this time.

Absently, his fingertips curl and uncurl against her hip, lightly dragging across the fabric and the curve there in a rhythmic fashion.

Her question shatters through his thoughts, and he tilts his head to look down at her, thankful for the mundane topic and amusement tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“You thought I’d snore? I almost feel I should be insulted by that.” Teasing her lightens his chest a bit, freeing up some of the weight of all the new questions this circumstance has brought up, if only for now. He welcomes it. “I know my nose has been broken before, but I didn’t think it was all  _that_  bad…”  


* * *

Not for the first time Vanora is struck by just how easy it is to be with Maretus. Even now, barely over the awkward newness of their tangled limbs and their mutual desire to stay put, for now, things become comfortable again. Granted, Vanora’s mind is unraveling everything, trying to make sense of the nuances and subtle things that are changing in her own head, but she doesn’t feel the quiet panic of planning her own escape. They both want to be there, and for all her experience reading people and controlling herself she isn’t sure what to make of that.

Someone else, someone without as much baggage as she and Maretus carry, someone who had not grown up with the struggles and challenges of their lives might have had an easy answer for this. To someone on the outside, this could all be clear as day. Hell, if Vanora had been on the outside perhaps it would have been crystal clear… and easier to acknowledge and name it. But she isn’t on the outside, she’s as emotionally entangled in this as she is physically entangled with Maretus, and it’s beginning to get harder to wrap her mind around all of this.

It takes a great amount of effort to try and quiet the increasingly disruptive whirlwind of thoughts and focus on the present. There is time to analyze every second of their interaction later, but how much longer do they have like this? Will they ever again find themselves in a similar situation, or will they have to drink all the honeyed wine they can in order to explain away their choice in bedfellows? Really they can’t even use that as an excuse, not when they’ve both decided that staying this way, at least a little while longer, is what they want. 

Maretus’ hand on her hip draws her back to the present, pulling her out of her own head. His fingers glide over her hip, curling in and then extending back to their original position. His touch is gentle, slow, and simultaneously calms her and lights up the nerves in her skin. She’s certain that she’s never been so acutely aware of the sensations on her hip, and though it’s strange, as with everything else this morning, it isn’t unpleasant in the least. Sighing quietly, she lets her eyes close for a moment, drinking in the sensation of his hands on her hip and their bodies pressed together. Though they are in absolutely no danger at all, at least not the life threatening sort, she feels safe here, wrapped up in his embrace and pressed against his side. He’s solid and warm, and she seems to fit just right against him that it makes her heart flutter.

Opening her eyes again just before he responds Vanora looks up to meet his gaze, a wry smile on her lips. She didn’t know that he’d had his nose broken before. Not surprising considering his profession, but whoever had set the bone had done an excellent job. She’s about to comment on the skill of his physician and looks up only to lock eyes with him. Her breath catches in her throat as they finally look at one another and she nearly forgets what she’s saying. It feels as though time has suddenly slowed, drawing out their locked gaze, before, finally, she finds her words.

**_“_** I am most certainly not trying to insult you, Maretus. Although I am impressed by whoever it was that set your nose. Most of the people I know who’ve broken their noses have had snoring issues afterward. ** _”_**

Daring to look him in the eyes once again, a small smile on her lips, she wonders how many little facts about Maretus there are, ones that wouldn’t normally come up in conversation. Before today she had no idea he’d broken his nose and she finds herself wondering about other little details of his life. Ridiculous though it might be Vanora would like very much to lay there all day and ask about those inane questions that float through her head. Some might call it a day wasted, but she would have to disagree. Never before had she wanted to know so much about someone for no other reason than to know them. Learning intimate details about socialites and politicians was another world entirely. She knew their lives because she had to, but she wanted to know everything about Maretus out of sheer desire to know him.  


* * *

Maretus doesn’t realize they haven’t actually looked at one another yet, directly, until it happens, and just as he can see the smallest of hitches in her breath, so does he feel it happen to himself, as well.

In that instant, any thoughts he might have had toward the rest of the day vanish. For just the space of those few breaths, any complicated implications of what all this means seem inconsequential, and his features soften into just relishing their closeness together for the simpleness that it is. If there was a way to freeze a single moment and live in it forever, encapsulated in some magic bauble somehow, he would have given anything for it to be cast.

But no such magic exists, even Maretus knows that, and the moment passes and Vanora replies to him, sounding more serious than he intended their conversation to go.

“In truth, I didn’t think you were trying to insult me… merely a poor attempt at a joke on my part. And yes–it was long ago that it was broken, when I was the Axivor being groomed to take over the Perivantium Legion. Can’t have the next up and coming Legator with a crooked nose, after all.” He scrunches it for emphasis. “One of the few times I agreed to let a mage healer see to an injury. Fixed it up better than brand new.”

The absent-minded stroking of his fingers against her hip stop now that he’s no longer lost in thought for the moment, his hand settling against the curve of the bone instead, seemingly content to simply allow it to rest there. He hopes it is not a placement too intimate, though she hadn’t shifted away or asked him to remove it. Just like Vanora, physical affection of really any sort isn’t Maretus’ forte, and he fears testing any new waters for both overstepping any bounds and, to a degree, admitting he wanted to see what sort of bounds were between them now, if any.

And with those thoughts, comes a growing sense of responsibility–in specific, the ones they were both barreling headlong into avoiding by lingering so late in bed.

With a great feeling of regret, Maretus lets out a long breath. “Your… healers won’t be worried as to how you never went up to your rooms last night? Or are missing from them this morning?”  


* * *

**_“_** Typical of Tevinter, ** _”_**  Vanora replies, smirking and rolling her eyes. It’s amusing that even in the military looks were critical. Maybe not for Maretus when he had been a soldier, but they couldn’t have someone of importance looking anything less than their best.

**_“_** Can’t have a crooked nose ruining that beautiful face, an absolutely preposterous notion that someone of note could have less than perfect features. An expectation that we surprisingly had in common. ** _”_**

Vanora can remember all the fuss made whenever her skin was broken–a paper cut, catching herself on a sharp edge, pricking her finger with a clasp of some sort. They’d had a healer called for the most minute injuries to ensure that not a centimeter of her skin was marred. Yet another joyous experience of her youth. As ridiculous as she’d thought it was during her younger years she grew quickly to understand why it was that her parents had been so adamant. Even now she is careful to heal herself and keep her skin scar free. Whether it’s because of vanity or habit she isn’t sure, but when she goes back it’s one less thing she’ll have to worry about.

Going back… yes, she’d have to leave and it would need to be sooner rather than later. Although Septimus’ assassination attempt had been thoroughly thwarted and a handful of spies keeping a close eye on him, Vanora couldn’t just let him live his life freely, thinking that he was completely safe. No, she would have to deal with him permanently–having any challenge to her authority upon her return was absolutely unacceptable. It knots her stomach, not because she’s concerned about returning home, but because she knows that it will be without Maretus. Before she can travel down that train of thought Maretus asks about her healers. Groaning quietly she hides her face against his side, taking a deep breath before pulling away and exhaling slowly.

**_“_** Yes… I suppose they’ll be wondering where I am. Gone off for a morning walk and losing track of time seems plausible enough. Not that they’d question me too much. Nothing of importance is going on. ** _”_**

Pulling her head back from his chest, one eyebrow raised as she looks at him, she nods towards the window,  ** _“_** What about you? Aren’t you supposed to be out there training with them? ** _”_**

Regardless of his answer, she knows they really do need to get up. As wonderful a morning as it has been, they both have work to do. If only they were in Tevinter. Vanora could have everything canceled for the day and spend it all lounging around with Maretus. Sighing, she shifts her hips away from him, carefully slipping her leg out from between his. The arm that has been tossed over his side moves across his chest. Using her elbow against the bed as leverage she sits up, her horribly messy braid long fallen out of its bun. Oh, she’s sure she looks like a mess. Rubbing at her eyes she looks down at Maretus, still laying in bed beneath her, and cannot help but smile gently down at him.

**_“_** Well, it seems that our lovely morning is at a close. ** _”_**

As she speaks her fingers work at her braid, smoothing the stray hairs back as best she can and tying it up with the lingering pins still stuck there. Looking back down at him, she nods towards the door,  ** _“_** I’ll make sure the coast is clear and then sneak out. Maker forbid someone sees us walking out of your rooms together, tongues would certainly be wagging. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

He laughs his agreement at her comment of Tevinter. “Yes, well, I can certainly imagine that it would be deemed more important for people of your stature. I think it’s not as unseemly overall in the Legion–our business was war, after all–but the timing of mine was simply unfortunate. Considering it was from another officer of the jealous altus persuasion who wasn’t particularly pleased upon finding out that I had been picked to go to the state dinner and he hadn’t. I feel that had I not been on my way to a ceremonial function, there wouldn’t have been as much fuss over it.”

It’s odd, he muses for nowhere near the first time, but ever since growing closer to Vanora he’s been looking at Tevinter in a different light. It seemed that not only did she force him to reevaluate how he viewed both altus and mages, but also Tevinter, as well. After all, she’d grown up in the same cutthroat society that all other altus had, had distant, cold parents who expected nothing but perfection from her… and yet here she was, acting in a way so opposite what he saw as how the worst altus was. He sees now just how unfair he was, how rigid and disagreeable in his blanket distrust.

But his distrust stemmed from fear, and that fear from vulnerability and being unable to understand something as foreign to him as magic. With Vanora, he hadn’t known she was either a mage or an altus, and so got to know her as a person first and foremost, which led to his world being turned so utterly upside-down when it was revealed to him what she was.

And it turned upside-down again when he came to understand that he always knew what she was all along: Vanora. No more, no less. Vanora, who is, and has been for quite some time, near and dear to his heart, who is someone that would intentionally set aside her own comforts and luxuries and needs and desires to help others. He’s known her since Haven, seen how heavy the toll traveling from Haven to Skyhold was on her, how heavy the tolls of losing Inquisition soldiers was on her. Knowing her as he does, knowing she is a mange, an altus, there is no way he can continue thinking the way he was for so many years.

There are so many thoughts he wishes to share with her, how much of a pessimistic, dark place he had been in for so long before leaving the Legion and for many years after, but she is right–their lovely morning has to end. Would it ever come again? He isn’t sure, but no small part of him hopes this isn’t the last instance, and perhaps even with such a volume of alcohol next time. But… that is an entanglement for later time.

He watches her ease away from him, sliding her leg out from between his and pushing herself up and away to sit up. Her hair is wild around her face, and to see her immediately start smoothing it back to tame it again makes him smile fondly at her. Pushing himself up onto his elbows as well, he replies, “Unless I’ve specifically called for an early morning drill, I actually have about another half hour or so before training routines start. I typically set time aside for paperwork in the mornings.”

A chuckle sneaks out of him at her mention of rumors circulating about them. “I’m sure they already are. We weren’t exactly subtle when we left the tavern last night.” Part of him wants to just tell her to let them think what they will, but that is a bold and brash part of him that is easy enough to tamp down in the sober light of morning.  


* * *

Half an hour left to do nothing? She groans and shakes her head, more than a little jealous that he has time to get himself together before having to do work. Meanwhile, she’ll head back, headfirst into whatever work there was to do. Things had been quiet so with any luck she would be able to take something for her hangover and take it easy for the rest of the day. Then the day would come full circle and she’ll end the day the same way she has started it–with Maretus. Seeing him has quickly become something to look forward to during her day, especially the long ones where it feels like the day will never end.

How strange to come so far, to see so much, and for everything to shift because of one single person. Sure, her life was very much the same, and yet in so many ways it was entirely different. In all of Thedas there is only Maretus who knows the truth, who has seen behind the carefully constructed mask and known her simply as Vanora. He’d never known the fancy titles and wealthy family she’d come from, nor the hours spent slaving away in her tutoring and training sessions. Just her name and her job. When they had come clean it was the possibility that she might lose Maretus that had created an insufferable wave of nerves and fear that had nearly crippled her. The danger of exposure and the threat on her life hadn’t bothered her nearly as much as losing Maretus did. It was a testament to how important he’d become, and although she accepted it there’s no doubt that it makes her uncomfortable. She isn’t used to being so attached to people, and although it’s strange and unsettling she finds that she likes it in a way.

Smirking at him Vanora nods, “That’s true. Maybe I ought to unbraid my hair and mess it up. That will give them even more to talk about. Oh! I could borrow one of your tunics.”

She’s amused by the entire notion and can practically see how people would react. Conversations quieting down when they walked into the tavern, whispered commentary as people watched them. It would probably be a little annoying in the long term, but the shock factor would be entertaining. Laughing to herself she finishes putting the last pin in place. Shifting to the edge of the bed Vanora adjusts her dress, trying to smooth out the fabric. At least the sturdy wool dress isn’t as prone to wrinkling as other fabrics she’d worn before. Legs over the edge of the bed she turns to look at Maretus. There’s a chunk of hair that’s slipped down in front of his face. Without thinking it through she reaches over, pushing it away from his forehead with smile before drawing her hand back to her side.

**_“_** Right…” she says, finally standing up, “I ought to go before the healers send a search party out to find me. Thank you for a lovely evening and a wonderful morning. I’ll see you at dinner? ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

For a moment, his smile widens, and he plays along with the idea. “Perhaps then I can at least see you with your hair down for once.” Shaking his head only moments after the words leave his mouth, he continues. “No, best not to give any more fuel to add to the fire. I’m sure there’ll be enough whispered gossip as it is.”

As she stands and begins straightening and smoothing her dress, he rolls over to his side and slips out of bed as well, bare feet hitting the floor, having worked the socks he went to bed with off at some point. With all the warmth of sharing a bed with her, he doesn’t mind the cold rug against his bare skin. Unlike Vanora’s room, he has a plain cotton rug beneath his bed, providing some sort of barrier against the cold stone for a few paces around the bed itself.

“Perhaps you should leave a change of clothes here, in case this ever happens again. That way you’d be sure to have a wrinkle-free dress,” he starts, the words coming out before he even pauses to think about them, or how they might sound. Even he isn’t sure exactly how he intends them, and snaps his mouth shut immediately after.

With a quick glance up, Maretus catches her gaze again, feeling heat rush over his cheekbones as he swallows in lieu of saying anything. Though his first instinct is to apologize and assure he doesn’t mean anything by that… he wouldn’t be able to say that statement would be true anymore. He wouldn’t mind if this happened again, or if she did leave any of her things here if need arose.

Pushing beyond whatever implications lie within his suggestion, Maretus nods, feeling a dull throb of pain come to the forefront of his head again. “Yes–aside from the mild headache, it was rather enjoyable. More so than I can remember having in a long while.” He smiles at her. “Yes–pending anything happening, the usual dinner would be nice.”  


* * *

Satisfied that she doesn’t blatantly look like she’s spent a night in bed wearing her clothes Vanora prepares to leave. Looking over to Maretus her eyes widen in surprise at his suggestion. Leave a change of clothes here? Warmth spreads through her chest as she processes what he’s just said. It can’t be passed off as being sleepy or drunk, not when they’re both standing up, fully awake, and saying their goodbyes for the day. Vanora isn’t quite sure what to make of the offer, but it strongly suggests that a repeat of this past evening, hopefully with less alcohol involved, would not be unwelcome. Indeed, it almost seems an invitation, an excuse, to stay over again. 

**_“_** Oh? ** _”_**  she replies, the single syllable word all she can muster at first,  ** _“_** An interesting proposition… but a clever idea should we ever find ourselves, uh, bunking together in the future. I’ll see about rolling something up to sneak back. Or just give it to you… that might be easier. ** _”_**

Trailing off, certain that her cheeks are starting to color, Vanora decides that despite how unexpected this has all been it’s an experience all for the better. It seems as though things have shifted overnight, and, indeed they have. A night ago there would have been no talk of spare clothes in Maretus’ room, but today is a new day with a slew of new possibilities. Smiling with a sharp nod, satisfied that everything is in order, Vanora pauses, unsure exactly what she’s supposed to do for a goodbye, but decides that what they’ve said is good enough. A hug seems inappropriate, and despite their close proximity, she feels that a kiss on the cheek might be pushing it a bit too far. One thing at a time.

**_“_** Excellent, then I shall see you for dinner. Try not to enjoy that paperwork too much, ** _”_**  she teases, making for the door. She cracks it open, just enough to see outside, and peers down each end of the walkway. It appears that she’s picked the perfect time to slip away as nobody is in sight. Now the trick is to get away from his room and far enough away so as not to draw suspicion when she crosses paths with someone. Glancing over her shoulder with a smile she opens the door a little more and slips out into the morning light secure in the knowledge that she’ll have the entire day to mull things over before they see one another again. Perhaps by dinner things will be a little clearer. She can only hope.


	6. Chapter 6

**vi.**

He watches the door for an unknown span of time after she leaves, everything rolling around in his mind. It seems impossible to try and sort it now, so much that is too fresh, and his head throbbing mildly on top of it all. Without any real time left to get any paperwork done, Maretus heads to his bathing room to ready himself for the day.

It passes by as usual, the soldiers receptive and even anticipating him by this point, having worked under him for so long. Soon enough, it was dinnertime, and Maretus finds his stomach twisting a little in knots. Would everything still be the same between them, despite what all had transpired between them last night and this morning?

Of course, dinner is normal. Neither of them brought up the morning, or even the night before, and if they received any curious or lingering looks from other patrons, he didn’t notice. Maretus doesn’t mind that they didn’t talk about waking up entangled with each other–he still hasn’t quite processed it, and he thinks it’s safe to assume she is in the same situation. Then again, nothing really  _happened_  between them, so perhaps he’s over-worrying about the whole thing and she’s already moved on to other thoughts. Again, he wouldn’t blame her for that, either. And so he contents himself with their usual routine–not a difficult thing to accomplish, anyway.

The next several days are cut from the same cloth, slipping seamlessly back into their usual routine with no other comment about both of them wanted to remain in bed with one another after their initial surprise about it. Were it any other sort of situation, Maretus would have forgotten about it, or filed it away in the back of his mind, but this… this he finds himself thinking about it almost every time his thoughts wander.

What did it all mean to him? He certainly enjoyed it far more than he was willing to admit out loud–the warm presence of her, the solid softness of her that fit tucked against him so well, the way his nose burrowed into the lavender scent of her hair, the feel of her hand lying on his chest and her leg snug between his. He wanted all that again, now knowing what it felt like to have her as a bed companion to some degree. The past few nights after, he hadn’t slept well–no trouble necessarily falling asleep after all his physical rigors throughout the days, but he kept waking up and reaching for her, only to find emptiness.

But thinking about how–or if he even should–to express that to her? There was some line that he was wavering behind, wanting to cross but unsure how or when.

And then he has to ask himself–does he want more? More than just a bedfellow to sleep next to and to curl around? He… he thinks so. Maretus is woefully inexperienced when it comes to such things, and has absolutely no idea how such a subject would even be broached without potentially insulting her or frightening her away.

Neither of these concessions privately in his own mind deal with any emotional factor, and that is perhaps the part that frightens him most. Even if they were to somehow talk to one another and agree to dally together, Vanora would be heading back to Tevinter eventually. Losing her without any further emotional attachment or physical– _carnal_ , he allows himself this word–knowledge is going to be bad enough, and he isn’t keen on making the inevitable severing worse.

Perhaps it would be best to just let it lie and fade into nothing more than a pleasant memory he could pull out later during long days or nights.

And so he continues with his routine.  


* * *

Over the years Vanora has come to appreciate the distraction of work. Once it had been a necessity, something that had to be completed in order for her to progress, to get better. With time it became something she enjoyed, a challenge always waiting to be met and conquered only for another to take its place. Now, with more years between her and her life in Tevinter, she appreciates it as a way to bury herself and tune out the world. She’d known how useful studying had been to distract herself as a young woman, but she uses the technique now more than ever. It is easier to function when she can distract herself all day and ignore her wandering thoughts.

But night always comes and she cannot quiet her mind forever. Barely 24 hours pass before the first heavy wave hits her, a mess of feelings she can’t untangle and questions she can’t answer. Not yet at least. Not for the first time in dealing with Maretus Vanora calls to mind the eternal warning of her parents–to become emotionally attached is to become weak, it can only lead to pain. There is a heavy truth to their words, for what happiness was not balanced out by sorrow? Nothing stayed happy forever, and yet it was the counterpoint of pain that made the good so much better. One could not fully enjoy their life, their accomplishments if they did not have to work for them.

Still, she cannot fight them off. The age old practice of boxing up her feelings and tucking them away is failing her, refusing to let her heart be still or her thoughts calm. It seems that there is no choice but to deal with them, and their night together is the only logical place to begin. After all, it sticks out in vivid detail, every little movement seared into her brain like a branding iron. It scares her more than she can fathom, enough that she thinks she would prefer facing down those men in town after that dreadful trip down the mountain. At least they were a known quantity, something she’d handled before and could handle again. But this? This was a whole other world that she’d never touched before. Beyond the pages of books the idea of deep attachment, romantic or otherwise, did not exist. Love was a fairytale that was not for her to dream of.

Each night she’s lost in her own thoughts, trying to make sense of them all, slowly sorting them into more coherent fragments and tying them together. It was impossible to keep pretending that everything was the same as ever, that they’d survived Septimus’ plots and returned back to normal. Even if their schedules had resumed and things seemed the same they could never go back. And, if she was being honest, Vanora didn’t want to go back. To have Maretus know about her, know who and what she was, was a massive burden off her shoulders. Despite all his fear, his distrust, and anger towards her kind, he had not spurned her. It had taken time, but they had made it through, stronger than before, and if she could pick out the true turning point that was it.

They had survived so much together, each time growing closer, bonded by the hardships they’d endured and the comfort of one another. What had been friendship for so long had shifted, subtly, until they found themselves tangled up in bed and faced with dangerously foreign territory. She finds solace in the fact that Maretus is equally inexperienced as she is…at least she assumes he is. She’d never considered that he’d gotten around, although he had no reason to not be popular with women. Even if he wasn’t a sweet talker. Something about the way his cheeks got slightly ruddy when he stumbled over his words always makes her heart swell, the sight endearing. She smiles when she looks back at how many good things had happened between them, and, in time, faces down the problem of their shared morning together.

Of all the mornings in her life, that is the one that she will remember forever and treasure the most. Such a mundane thing to wake up next to someone, so trivial, and yet so profound. Twice now she has woken to find herself on her side, limbs curled around nothing but air, blankets twisted around her feet from her shifting. Only once in her life had she shared a bed with someone, and like some deadly poison it had consumed her without notice. Yes, she craves another morning like it, one without alcohol to put them to bed together. The idea alone makes her head spin and her body heat up. It would be easier to pass it off as mere physical desire, yet another part of her that had been locked away her entire life, but it is not just the physical intimacy that she desires. That morning they were laid bare to one another, no pretenses, simply being, and it is something not easy to recreate when there are people all around.

She wants it, at least once more, and she desires it badly enough that she genuinely considers how it might be done again. But then she happens across one of the letters from her spies in Tevinter and the heady bubble she had been in pops. No matter how much she wants to curl up in Maretus’ arms again their time is finite. The last letter warned that Septimus seemed to be planning something again, another power play perhaps, and Vanora knows that her time to return home has come at last. But this is one adventure that Maretus cannot join her on. As a deserter, he would be killed the moment someone realized who he was. It feels like she’s taken a knife to the chest simply thinking about leaving him behind. If she hadn’t spent a lifetime controlling herself she thinks she might cry, but instead she drops down into her chair and holds her head in her hands.

When she lays in her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling to try and fall asleep, it comes to her. Despair might not be the ending in their future after all. She was not one to give up, and she’d be damned if she didn’t try. So her bed is abandoned in favor of her desk, a letter penned in the shadows before a quick trip to the tower sends it off into the darkness. It is the first step, and by dinner the next day she’s found her nerve and solidified her plan. Now all there is left to do is broach the topic to Maretus, and the simple idea of it makes her ill. Just because this is what she wants doesn’t mean that any feelings he may or may not have would make him want to go along with it. Still, the worst that can happen is that it ends the way she expects it to–with one sharp cut to sever their connection as she turns her back on the Inquisition.

Vanora turns up a little earlier for dinner that evening. The whole day she’s been agitated, something she can only blame on nerves. Sitting at their table with her food and drink she finds herself staring at her plate, wishing that she didn’t feel like an uncertain child all over again. But the best things in life are won, not handed over without effort. So she sits, picking absently at her food, waiting for Maretus to come.  


* * *

It’s a particularly taxing day, a particularly frustrating one. Maretus woke up frustrated from the start, the echoes of some dream with Vanora in it in Tevinter rattling around in his head and refusing to leave. It colors the rest of his day, and so he spends extra time after the daily drills and formations to work off extra energy.

When he finishes, he starts heading back to his quarters to bathe, but then notices just how low in the sky the sun hangs, and realizes he’s already late to dinner with Vanora.

Cursing softly under his breath, he sets off in a job toward the tavern. It was well past the time when they usually met, and he didn’t want to make her wait any more than she probably already has. Hopefully, knowing him as long as she has under various moments of duress, she would forgive his current unbathed and sweaty state at least for dinner.

When he arrives, the tavern is somehow more crowded than usual–but then again, he doesn’t typically come in to try and find a seat as late as this, so perhaps this is normal, and he simply doesn’t notice. Whatever the case may be, he maneuvers through the crowd to the bar to fetch his plate and a mug of ale. The barkeep gives him a bit of a look, glancing over to the table where Vanora is already sitting with her back to them, as if chiding Maretus for keeping her waiting. He lets out a small breath, not liking feeling like he was being treated somewhat like a tardy child, and leaves without acknowledging the barkeep’s obvious implications.

Weaving through the crowd even more carefully with full hands, it takes a good handful of minutes before he slides into the seat across from Vanora at their table, setting the plate and mug down with a definitive sigh of relief.

“Is it always this crowded at this time?” Maretus shakes his head. “I’m sorry for being so late–I got caught up working longer than usual and came over as soon as I realized the time to not keep you waiting any longer.”  


* * *

Maretus doesn’t turn up right away, leaving Vanora some time to mull things over. In fact, he doesn’t turn up for a while. She begins to worry that he’s forgotten or decided to bail out, but neither are likely. It wasn’t Maretus’ way. So she picks at her food, sips her water, and kills time by losing herself in her head. Unlike Maretus words have always been a strength of hers. One did not survive amongst the altus by being a stuttering child without the ability to speak cohesively, elegantly, and cleverly. Faced with a rather challenging discussion with someone she cares deeply for Vanora finds herself in a position she is not used to. How does she say what she needs to say? To ask what she needs to ask? And, if worse comes to worst how will she brush it all off?

She’s distracted enough by her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice Maretus come in. There are so many people crowding the tavern that it isn’t easy to catch a particular face in the crowd with only the corner of her eye. Only when she sees a flash of golden skin does she know that he’s turned up. Glancing around the tavern to gauge the time she’s surprised at how late he is. When he finally sits it’s clear that he’s been wrapped up with work. Outside of seeing him during training sessions or after fending off wolves Vanora can’t recall a time when he’d been sweaty, particularly not at dinner. Even so, she cannot fault him for it, he’s a soldier after all. It isn’t as though it bothers her in any way.

Smiling faintly she shrugs,  ** _“_** I believe so. Things feel tighter, the atmosphere is more oppressive when we’re midway through our meal. It’s strange to be starting dinner so late. But there’s no real need to apologize, I know better than most how easy it is to get lost in work. ** _”_**

Now that he’s seated she takes a bite of her food, adhering to proper manners even though she thinks it wouldn’t bother him much if she’d started eating when he hadn’t turned up for nearly half an hour. Still, manners mattered, and she couldn’t let them fall slack with Tevinter looming in the very near future. She isn’t ready to bring it up yet, it’s better to wait until the meal is done. Starting dinner off with a serious conversation is no way to dine. Instead, she turns the conversation back to Maretus.

**_“_** Were you training with the troops today, or simply training alone? I imagine it would be easier to lose track of time when it’s only you. ** _”_**

* * *

 

****He’s grateful for her understanding for his tardiness to their unspoken dinnertime. It wasn’t as if they ever formally agreed to meed every day at a particular time to eat together, but it had grown so naturally that way that it chafed him when the routine was upset. He might possess a quick and bright mind, but in many ways he is a simple creature and takes pleasure in his routines. An enjoyment hammered into him from so much of his life spent adhering to strict Legion routines–it’s more than second nature to him. ** _  
_**

Eyeing her food, he chides her, “You didn’t have to wait for me, you know that.” Taking her example, though, he tucks into his own food.

“Both, actually,” he says after his first bite in answer to her question. “I trained a bit after myself to blow off some steam.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them–an unsettling habit he’s fallen into far too often around Vanora, he thinks. “And to practice a few things,” he adds hastily. “Not being regularly in combat myself and more often on the teaching side, it can be startlingly easy to get a little rusty, so I like to remind myself how I fight sometimes.”

Taking a long sip of his ale, he changes gears, hopefully away from himself. “What about you? Long day at the tower?”

He hasn’t seen many Inquisition soldiers headed her and her healers’ way for quite some time, and it gives him hope that they were, in fact, retaining the lessons he, the Commander, and the Seeker were instilling in them over all this time. But, he also knew that more and more of the soldiers were going further and further afield at the Inquisitor’s behest, and he also knew that Vanora had sent healers to go along with them. He isn’t the one that receives the reports on how those field troops were faring, so he has no idea if they will be coming back soon or if they will need any additional care once returned. Though she hasn’t told him, he imagines as head healer she is more likely to know such things than he. Well familiar with potentially sensitive missions and a “need-to-know-basis”, he refrains from asking her any such information, figuring he’ll find out when, or if, he needs to. He’s merely here to train, not orchestrate.

That line of thinking reminds him inevitably of his commanding position back in the Legion. He… has to admit to himself that at times, he does miss it. He’s good at logistics and strategy and juggling multiple plans at once, and while he’s doing good here in the Inquisition and helping quite a bit, he can’t help but feel underused. It’s not his place, though, and he chose to leave that life behind. No matter how he may miss it occasionally.

All these thoughts go unspoken as he takes another bite and refocuses on his time here, now. While Vanora could– _would_ , he morosely reminds himself–return and slip back into her old life back home, that door was closed to him now. It brings another pang through him to remember her time with him is finite, which he swallows back down with a long draught of ale.  


* * *

Blow off steam? He quickly recovers, or tries to, by explaining how easy it was to get rusty at fighting. She knows the feeling. Vanora should practice her magic more often. Though ultimately she’s always had a knack for it, she doesn’t have much time to devote to keeping up her skills. Nor are they the safest to be practicing. Accidentally burning something in her room when there’s no fire is a bit suspicious. Nodding in agreement, and letting his comment about blowing off steam slip for the moment she shrugs in reply to his question.

**_“_** Long, but only because there is less and less to do. With the other healers gone and our services infrequently required I find myself with more time than I would like, ** _”_**  she admits, quickly adding,  ** _“_** Not that I have an issue with the quiet–it means that the soldiers and spies are doing well, as are the healers we’ve sent. But it does leave me with idle hands, and I’m not terribly fond of that. ** _”_**

Perhaps in another situation, she could find a way to blow off steam…one that didn’t require magic or a sword. She nearly chokes on her own breath at the unbidden thought and turns her attention to the food in front of her, taking a bite before she can actually choke on anything. Oh, how she’s gotten twisted up in her own head. Nothing can ever be simple, can it? After another sip she speaks up again.

"I believe our quiet days have much to do with you and the training you’ve provided. I don’t deny that I’ve trained my healers as best as I can, but the combination of well-trained troops and well-trained healers is working out quite nicely from what I’ve heard. It’s strange to think that once upon a time you were in the same place as the soldiers you train now.”

Smiling, she shakes her head, trying to picture a younger Maretus first learning to use a sword. It isn’t the easiest thing to conjure up in her mind. She has, after all, only known him as a capable warrior, both in a fight and beyond. It is no wonder that he climbed the ranks so quickly. There it is, yet another wayward thought of home to drag her back to the present and the conversation they had to have.

**_“_** Do you ever miss the Legion? Or at least parts of it? ** _”_**

She cannot help but ask, wondering if there is anything positive from home that still connects him back there. Not everything from Tevinter was bad, after all, it had managed to produce him, and surely he had good memories of it. Simpler times when he wasn’t in charge of so much and entangled in politics perhaps. If there’s anything about Tevinter that he misses then it’s another thing to bring up when the time came. With every bite of food and every sip of water, she gets closer to bringing it up. When the food is gone she’ll ask about going home, and Maker help her, because she doesn’t know how to proceed if it goes poorly.  


* * *

He nods his agreement with her assessment. “Yes–both have been well-trained and also seem to be working better together. Things always settle after a time and everyone gets used to one another; the Inquisition was… rather haphazard when I first arrived, and there will always be some growing pains.”

Her next question, however, throws him off-guard. It’s as if she’s peered into his thoughts, reminiscing on his station in the Legion. Or perhaps he’s simply that predictable, and it’s the logical assumption that talking about his military duties here would lead him to think back on his previous ones. He takes another bite of his food before he answers.

“Is it so strange? I wouldn’t think I’m so old that you wouldn’t be able to imagine me younger and impetuous.” Stabbing a slice of meat on his plate with his fork, he continues, addressing her question proper.

“Though,” he begins slowly, weighing his words and knowing that she would appreciate better than anyone else who might have asked him the same question the hesitation of his admittance, “it may seem an obvious answer that I wouldn’t have any fond memories of the Legion, I think it’s been clear with our many talks that I do miss it. You asked me the other night about people I was close to in the Legion–those are good parts I remember–and the perks of the office of Legator itself I’ve mentioned before. But beyond those things…” He lifts his eyes from his plate to her face, and finds himself taken by surprise the intensity of the way she is watching him. She does an excellent job of hiding her emotions much of the time, but he knows her well enough by now to see that there is something on her mind, though he cannot fathom what it is.

“Beyond those things, I do miss it,” he finishes with a roll of his shoulders in a shrug. “I like routine, I like feeling put to good use, I like taking on challenges. The higher I rose in the Legion, the more I was able to do and have a say about and a hand in. I’m sure they have some competent people now, but I don’t think I’d be bragging to say that I was among the most qualified people in the Legion back in my time there. I’m  _good_  at all the things the Legion demanded of me, and I enjoyed doing them.” His eyes drop back down to his plate. “It was mostly the politicking and frustration of not being taken as seriously because of being… what I am that tainted the whole thing.”

His voice has dropped quieter, though he doesn’t really think anyone is eavesdropping on them, but it’s not the most pleasant of subjects to remember, even after so much time, and especially after all the two of them had been through. If their experiences in dealing with Septimus taught him anything, is that a decade and thousands of miles between him and Tevinter could feel like nothing at all.  


* * *

Vanora smirks and shakes her head,  **_“_ ** I was referring to it being challenging to imagine you at a time when you weren’t proficient in fighting. Although, now that you mention it, you  _are_  pretty old. ** _”_**

She’s teasing, clearly, and it’s a good distraction from her own thoughts. Surely he couldn’t be more than a handful of years older than her, which put them on the same level in terms of ‘old.’ Had they talked about the Legion that evening? For all her replaying of that day she’d focused very little on the details of their conversation. It only got difficult towards the end. But, now that she’s thinking about it, she does remember asking him about his friends and what his time in Tevinter was like.

Food forgotten, her meal only half eaten, she watches him, listening as he gives voice to the best parts of the Legion. Unsurprisingly it is the politics and classism that ruins everything. Wasn’t that always the case? But what he describes fits so perfectly well with what she’s gathered about Maretus. He had a good heart and a strong sense of justice. He wasn’t some warrior turned politician who wanted to play at power solely for the sake of power, he’d enjoyed his rank because it gave him the ability to do more for people. It wasn’t about personal gain for the sake of personal gain. No, he wasn’t like her sort who made their moves solely to gain more influence.

Not for the first time she finds herself more than a little irritated at how stuck Tevinter was. What was wrong with a talented, driven soporati moving up the ranks? Why was it that his birth, his lack of magic and status, meant he was somehow lesser, even compared to altus who might rank lower than himself? It wasn’t fair, as with many things in the world, and someday if she works hard enough Vanora has half a mind to start fixing that broken system. At least pave the way for later generations to truly create the change.

She watches his eyes drop, his tone quiet, and her heart aches. Impossible as it was Vanora wishes she could turn things back to the way they were, when he could be happy and satisfied with his life, but without the issue of his birth. If only he had been born an altus. Much as she wishes his happiness she does resent that desire to turn back time for him. After all, they would have never met then. And though it would mean that things would be easier, her blinders on and her nose turned up at anyone and everyone she viewed as beneath her, she admits to herself that she would not have traded their time together for anything in the world. 

Reaching across the table she sets her hand on his forearm, squeezing it gently,  ** _“_** And the Legion is lesser for doing so. They, along with the rest of my people, are stupid to ignore others because they do not possess magic or are born in the wrong class. But nevermind that, I wasn’t trying to make the conversation sad. ** _”_**

Retracting her arm and returning to her original position, Vanora takes a bite of her food. It makes her a little queasy, but it also provides her with a moment to compose herself. Propping her elbow onto the table, resting her chin in her hand, she tilted her head to the side.

**_“_** If you could go back, would you? ** _”_**

* * *

 

****Amused, one dark eyebrow arches on his face. “Oh? And just how old do you think I am?” Of course he knows she’s teasing, but he enjoys it and so goes along with it. He doesn’t know her age, either; it never came up in conversation between them before, but if he had to guess they were probably of a similar age. She couldn’t be more than a few years younger than him, and he would be surprised if she were older. But, then again, perhaps she had some altus skill to keep her looking young, he had no idea. ** _  
_**

He must have sounded more wistful or regretful than he meant, for her to reach out and gently squeeze his arm. He shifts, intending to place his hand over hers or grasp her hand with his own, but she retracts it and he reaches for his fork again, instead, feeling a bit foolish for wanting to hold her hand. He pokes at his food a bit.

“It’s not something that necessitates sympathy–it is what it is. Or was. Perhaps it’s changed now, I don’t know.” Another half shrug shifts his shoulders. “Then again, one could argue that Legator Legarem  _is_  quite an achievement for a soporati to reach. And who knows–if I had stuck around, maybe they would have started to change their minds.”

That was something that was among his biggest regrets about leaving–he was young, frustrated, at the end of his limit of tolerance, but he would never be able to answer the question of  _what if he had stayed?_  He’d never know if he would have been the one to convince others that the system was antiquated and unnecessarily unbalanced–sure, a lot of altus were only concerned about furthering their own personal goals, but there were also many who truly wanted the best for Tevinter. What if he would have been a catalyst for such change and shift in class views? He’d never know.

Maretus sets his fork down and picks up his mug of ale again, drinking from it to wash down the bitter, unanswerable questions.

Setting the mug back down on the table, he gives Vanora a half smile. “Usually it’s my job to bring the conversation down. Is there something bothering you? Or on your mind?”  


* * *

**_“_** Well you can’t be that much older than I am. Late thirties perhaps? Early forties at the oldest. Unless you’ve aged poorly and are younger than I am, ** _”_**  she replies, smiling faintly despite her tone. She doesn’t imagine he’s younger than her, but who knew. He could be younger and simply have aged more from his years in the sun. She always thought she would age well, though the mirrors here had done little to determine whether or not that was true. The reaction when she returned home would certainly aid in deciding, and how she hoped that she had aged well. Despite the sun and heat and work there was a chance that all those lotions and careful maintenance of her skin have paid off. Such vanity to creep into her mind at a time like this. Then again, her thoughts are on Tevinter, and appearances were as important as a family name.

**_“_** Perhaps it doesn’t necessitate sympathy, but that won’t stop me. Injustice, in a way, was what drove me from there in the first place. Yet another reminder how much needs to be changed there. ** _”_**

Shaking her head at the dizzying amount of headway to be made before any real change happened she leans back in her seat. She doesn’t want to be too close to Maretus when the subject shifts, she needs the distance to watch him, all of him, not just his face. Already it feels wrong to think about studying him, but she can’t help it. If he’s too polite to turn her down flat but his posture suggests he isn’t comfortable going along then she could leave without him. That hurts worse, and she knows she wouldn’t be able to leave with nothing but a letter telling him goodbye. It was cruel.

He sees right through her choice in topic, sees through her exterior and picks up on how heavily her thoughts weigh on her. She smiles faintly, amused at his commentary on his job bringing the tone of the conversation down. And perhaps it was, he was more prone to seriousness and less pleasant reflection. Vanora was better at blocking it out, at shutting her mouth when the more uncomfortable ideas come to mind. But now she can’t avoid it. The smile fades, lips pursed in thought for a moment, arms crossing lightly over her chest. Trying to sugar coat things would not help, it would only draw this out. Better to get to the heart of it and stop dancing around the issue.

**_“_** You know I have to leave soon, ** _”_**  she says, quiet enough that nobody besides Maretus would hear, the statement lingering for a few moments before she speaks again,  ** _“_** Septimus is moving, plotting something, and I can no longer sit idle an entire world away while he tries to tear everything apart. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

He can’t help but smile at her guessing. “No, no, don’t make me any more or less than I am. I like to think nearly thirty-six years have seen me age well, despite living the life of a soldier.”

Her saying injustice also drove her from Tevinter makes him curious. Maretus tries to think if he’s ever asked her why she left or if she’d ever mentioned it to him. Before the letter from Septimus forcibly dragged their pasts out to lay bare in front of one another, they had both been content to not delve too deeply into one another’s histories. He always imagined she was much like him in that respect, private and not wanting others to press for more information than he wished to share, and showing others the same respect. Perhaps someone might have thought it odd that they were so close and yet still had much to learn about one another, but he didn’t mind it.

Even now, with so much behind them, he doesn’t feel the urge to press her overmuch merely to satisfy his curiosity. Nodding, he says, “I always wondered what drove you from home. One day, if you’d like to share, I would be interested to hear.”

She leans back and an odd expression crosses her face for a fleeting moment, and it reminded him immediately of the days leading up to their confrontation because of Septimus’ letter. A heavy weight dropped to the bottom of his stomach with worry, and instantly his mind races through a dozen topics, trying to figure out what the matter could be.

Before he can settle on anything, though, her face actually does drop, her smile fading completely and Maretus feels his heart twist three different ways inside his chest. Something is definitely wrong. And then, her entire body language subdued more than he’d ever seen it before, she tells him what he was beginning to dread she’d say.

Several beats of silence pass, with only the constant noise of the tavern, the ebb and flow of dozens of different conversations, surrounding them. At length, he nods, biting his upper lip and allowing his gaze to fall to the rough wood of the table between their plates.

“We always knew this would happen, sooner or later,” he replies, softly as she’d spoken, though his next words had more venom in them than he expected. “I knew we should have killed him instead.”

Shaking his head, a hundred words of regret lodging in his throat. He clears it before he can speak again, forcing himself to look up and meet her eyes. “You must do this thing, Vanora, and you must do it more quickly than not. I can’t imagine he’d continue to rely on second-rate, blackmailed assassins half a world away. You could be in much more danger than before. I–”

Now the words do catch in his throat, and he draws in a breath, swallows, then tries again. “Whatever you need done before… before you leave, if there is anything I can do to help, I will.”  


* * *

They’re much closer in age than she thought, but there isn’t time to linger on that. The only thing she can focus on is handling a conversation that is painful for the both of them. In the back of her head, she still hopes blindly that this will work, that she can convince him to leave the Inquisition with her, but she expects the worst. Granted, she hasn’t quite settled on which version of ‘the worst’ seems most plausible.

Leaning away from the table she watches closely, noting the second that her words sink in. For a moment they sit in silence, Vanora keeping her gaze cool and collected as she watches him. He doesn’t look at her, eyes dropping from hers before he speaks. Guilt tightens her chest. Although there is little for Vanora to feel guilty about now that everything is out in the open to see his reaction makes her feel terrible for bringing it up. But it has to be brought up, they need to talk about this before there’s no time left. With any luck, the conversation won’t be dark and sad for long.

When he finally speaks she frowns, wishing that it hadn’t been some unspoken understanding that their time was finite and would end in their parting ways with Vanora headed to a place Maretus could not follow her. The quiet, sad tone is interrupted by harsh words that Vanora can only agree with. Ultimately they would have to part when the Inquisition was finished, but how long could they have extended their time together by handling Septimus earlier? Vanora should have hired a Crow to remove him, two if it meant certainty that he would be dealt with and never again pose a threat to her.

Her face contorts into a mixture of pain and sadness, tempered slightly when she realizes what face she’s making. She’s never heard him speak like this, never heard words catch in his throat. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, not when she can see the hurt on his face. Are there words that can convey how sorry she is that they are here, talking about goodbyes? Vanora doesn’t think so. She reaches over without thinking, resting her hand atop his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

**_“_** Yes… we should have. But there’s nothing to be done about it now, ** _”_**  she mutters, heaving a quiet, heavy sigh. Chewing the inside of her lip, still frowning, she continues,  ** _“_** I thank you for your offer of help. Simply having you around is all that I need for now. Ever minute counts, now. ** _”_**

Pausing for a few heartbeats she shifts gears, ever so slightly,  ** _“_** …although, there might be something you could do. But it is not something to be talked about surrounded by prying eyes and open ears. Might we take a walk? ** _”_**

The tavern suddenly feels incredibly oppressive, like a heavy blanket has been dropped over their table. Although it did provide a certain level of anonymity, nobody much paid them mind when they were eating, there was no way that people wouldn’t notice the change in postures, the whispers and frowns. It would inevitably draw someone’s attention, and this is a conversation she cannot risk others hearing.


	7. Chapter 7

**vii.**

Almost as soon as her hand touches his, he turns his around beneath hers so that their palms touch and his fingers extend along her wrist, gently curling up around it. It’s an unexpected touch in the midst of what feels like a precious moment shattering, and it nearly breaks him. Only recently had they started to give cautious voice to enjoying the touch of the other, and it seems like now he would have all the more reason to treasure the surprise and delight of waking next to her a few days before this. Such is the way of timing, he thinks bitterly.

Maretus’ eyes remain on their hands, as if trying to commit to memory the way her paler hand contrasted against his darker one. He didn’t expect that there would be anything he could do, and he feels as though a blade has been shoved into his stomach, twisting meanly at the words  _every minute counts, now_.

When she continues, however, he looks up at her, startled by her words. “Of… of course. Lead the way.”

He eases his hand out from beneath hers as they both abandon their plates, appetites gone and food forgotten. As she leads him out of the tavern, he watches the back of her head before him in the crowd, trying to figure out what he could possibly do for her. He doesn’t know all the details of what Septimus is planning, so perhaps she wanted to learn a few more basic hand-to-hand from him, in order to defend herself if need be.

No, that’s ridiculous. He shakes his head a little at himself. Vanora is a mage, she has more than enough skill and power to defend herself against whatever Septimus is intending on doing. Maretus is simply reeling and going to what seemed to him as the most obvious way he could help. He really cannot fathom what she might request of him, but he knows that he will do whatever he can to fulfill what she asks.

As they walk to a more secluded area to have a private conversation, he can’t help but chide himself for forgetting, however briefly, that this was inevitable. There was a time, he grudgingly admits in his own head, where he hoped after this whole business with the Inquisition was over that perhaps… perhaps she would continue with her travels and they might go together somewhere. A foolish notion, of course, but it had been a nice one while the hope for it still lasted. He didn’t begrudge her the need to go back, not at all. He knows firsthand the dangers of leaving loose ends to come back and haunt one, and it seems the only way to finally deal with Septimus is to go back and do it directly.

As soon as he thinks it, he wishes he could go with her, vehemently, to help her deal with this. Septimus threatened her, first and foremost, and was her kin, but he’d sent an assassin after Maretus, as well. He didn’t like the idea of being forced to stay put, unable to accompany her back, not being able to help, not being able to be there with her to face this threat.

All he can do, as much as it was truly starting to bother him, is follow her now and do what she needed while she was still here.  


* * *

As he turns his hand over, fingers curling around her wrist, she bites back the urge to lace her fingers through his as she had done several evenings ago. It wasn’t as if she had any issue with it, but with so many people around and such a serious conversation happening she doesn’t want to draw more attention to themselves than they have already. Hopefully, everyone is too busy with their own conversations to take note of the grim expressions on their faces.

Her request surprises him, the dark look on his face broken for a split second as he registers her request without hesitation. They stand, the last part of their meals left forgotten as Vanora leads them through the sea of people to the door. The evening air hits her like a brick wall and for once, she is glad for it. The cold seems to clear her head, if only a bit, and sharpen her senses. She heads off towards one of the quieter corners of Skyhold, even though the entire place is quite empty. It can’t hurt to have more privacy.

When they’re far enough from the tavern that she can’t hear the noise anymore her body seems to finally register the change in temperature. Glancing surreptitiously at Maretus from the corner of her eyes she takes a moment to debate if moving closer is a good idea. They’d made steps closer towards more physical connection, though she would hardly call it intimate, and what did it really matter? So she takes a step towards him, hooking her arm through his and curling the other around so both her hands rest on his forearm.

She doesn’t say anything until she’s certain they’re quite alone. If anyone can hear them it would be the watchmen on the ramparts, but even they aren’t to be seen. Vanora keeps her eyes ahead as they walk, pace slowing now that they’re away from the tavern. Is there an elegant way to delve into the topic? She doesn’t think so, and she hadn’t bothered with it to begin with. Blunt statements were straight to the point, and Maretus never minded them. Sucking in a slow breath into her nose she exhales just as slowly.

**_"_** I thought it would be wise to have a travel companion for my return to Tevinter. With everything going on it seems to me that the roads would be considerably less safe than when they were on my journey here. At least then I had caravans headed for Haven. Who knows what I might run into. **_”_ **

She lets that hang in the air, giving Maretus time to process it, before she adds the critical component,  ** _“_** I thought…well, I  _hoped_  that you might consider being that travel companion. There is no one else in all of Thedas who I would wish to travel with more than you. ** _”_**

* * *

 

****When she mentions wanting a traveling companion for her journey back, he nods in agreement to her assessment. The roads were considerably more dangerous than they were in years past–he’d been escorting various merchants and minor nobles over a significant portion of southern Thedas for the better part of the last decade, and he’d seen firsthand the sharp decline of the safety of the roads. It makes sense that she’d come to him for what he imagined would be his suggestions on groups to travel with, or good, reasonably secure places to stop. ** _  
_**

But then, after a pause, she continues, and what she says steals any answer he might have been formulating.

In the space that follows her telling him she wants him to go with her, he can’t breathe, can’t think, and it feels like his heart halts for a moment, too. Then everything starts moving again, and he chides himself for such an extreme reaction. Of course she wanted him to–they’d traveled together before, and even had spoken of how good of regular companions on the road they would make. Add to that the fact that he is the only one here, as far as he knows, who knows her true title and importance–it didn’t make sense for her to tell more people and possibly endanger herself, especially if Septimus is already on the move again. No, Maretus is the most logical escort choice, having a great deal of experience doing just that on top of their own relationship and his knowledge of not only her, but of Septimus and Tevinter itself and all that entails.

So he wets his lips, swallows, and nods again, more firmly this time. “Yes,” he says. “I am the most reasonable choice for traveling protection. I will gladly go with you and ensure your safety. For as long as I can.”

He hesitates, but then goes on. “And… when I–” The words catch again here, but he draws in a breath and soldiers on. “When I cannot go further, I will assist you in either finding a suitable replacement, or making sure that you are more than prepared for the… the final leg of your journey.”

Part of him knows that, while this is a practical plan, it also delays the inevitable even more. What were another few months if they knew it would also eventually end? Would it make it easier, to have more time to say goodbye? Or would it only make it hurt all the more, draw it out like trying to pull an arrow back out the way it entered, rather than pushing it all the way through to be a cleaner wound?  


* * *

It is a better response than she had feared and a very practical one at that. Leave it to Maretus to look at it from a strictly tactical standpoint. They were good friends, and he was more than well versed in survival techniques. Combined with his knowledge of her true traveling purpose he is the most logical choice to bring along. But, in all honesty, his practicality had only been the piece of the puzzle that would make this all plausible. It was a sound way to broach the topic of heading back home with him. There was absolutely no reason why her request would be unsound or illogical. 

Still, she can see him hesitate. She’s clearly surprised him, not necessarily by her initial request, but most certainly by asking for him in particular. Vanora cannot be sure if his hesitation is because he doesn’t want to go or simply from surprise. She hopes it is the latter. When he speaks it tugs at her heart and she feels terrible. In a perfect world, they would never need to have this conversation. There would be nothing to get in between them, not class nor distance nor legal complications. But this was not a perfect world.

Unable to do anything to comfort him Vanora settles for squeezing his forearm with one of the hands she has resting atop it. Apparently, it’s all she can think of tonight, something physical but mild enough not to seem forward and presumptuous. Using a cough to cover up her need to clear her throat she looks over to Maretus for the briefest of moments, her face somewhat grim as she turns her gaze ahead and keeps her eyes fixed on the wall as they walk.

**_“_** I admit, it is selfish of me to ask, and I would not begrudge you for saying no if it is your true wish. You are not beholden to accompany me so far and leave your men behind; I would not be offended, there is no need to accept solely out of politeness. ** _”_**

For a grown woman speaking to the person who is nearest and dearest to her heart she is a nervous wreck. It very well could be his status as someone of great importance that makes this all the more challenging. If he was some run of the mill soldier it wouldn’t be an issue to discuss the logistics of traveling to Tevinter, but there is too much between them. Even if he does not come with she doesn’t want their last days together to be tinged with tension and discomfort from a proposition gone wrong.

**_“_** But I cannot deny that my intentions are not entirely practical in nature. I shall cherish all the time we have together, all the moments we have shared in this past year, and this trip would provide extra time. ** _”_**

If he doesn’t agree to go all the way home then she isn’t sure that having him along would be such a good idea. To go so far, to get even closer to him, only to have to turn away and move on without him is enough to tighten her throat. 

**_“_** Unless… ** _”_**  she adds, voice quieting even more, her eyes faced forward, staring off into space as she forces herself onwards,  ** _“_** Unless I could convince you to extend that time together. Indefinitely. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

Her hands tightening gently around his arm helps ground him, and the cold is sharp enough to help him focus on the matter at hand and not let his thoughts spiral too far out of control.

“It is not selfish,” he hears himself reassuring her. “As much as I have helped them, the Inquisition soldiers are not ‘my men’.” His mouth twitches into a sardonic smile and he leans his head back to look up at the cloudy sky as they slowly walk. “They are the Inquisition’s soldiers, the Commander’s, and the Seeker’s. Were we not facing Tevinter forces, I have no doubt I’d be assigned some escort or bodyguard instead.”

A breath leaves him, misting out before his mouth before he lowers his head back down and looks at her again. Even as he was wondering if going along with her only to prolong the final hurt of their parting was a wise decision, Maretus already knew he would go along with her. “I would not mind extra time with you,” he tells her quietly, moving his opposite hand to rest on top of the one she has on his forearm.

Vanora turns her head from him, looking out somewhere in the distance before them, and her voice is tight when she speaks next. And what she says, what she’s suggesting… He stops cold in their walk, and she can only make it one step further before she’s forced to stop from their looped arms.

_Extend that time together. Indefinitely._

She wants him to go back to Tevinter with her. His heart leaps into his throat, the pulse stuttering as he stares at the ground in front of them as if he expected some ghoulish specter to rise from it. Go back with her. The words echo around and around in his head. He’d thought of this very question before, she might have even asked him of it one time, though he cannot recall right now, but with the actual proposition laid bare before him… Would he? Did he truly wish to?  _Yes._  But.

When he speaks, his voice is rough and full of far too much emotion. “Vanora… I–” He shakes his head, having to once again swallow back welled up words trying to tangle into a lump in his throat. “I’ll be killed. I can’t go back, no matter how much I would want to.” Finally, he forces himself to look up and catch her eyes, searching them. “Not even if I go with you.”  


* * *

Vanora doesn’t notice that Maretus has stopped until she’s pulled back when she tries to step forward, nearly stumbling and falling backward. Finally looking at him, brows drawing together as she frowns, she tightens her jaw as he speaks, biting back the urge to interrupt. Of course, his answer is no. Not a straightforward ‘no’ but an implied no, one that doesn’t need to be explicitly stated. Because he’s right, they would kill him. It hurts to hear him say that, to hear him verbalize how dangerous going home actually would be for him. Tevinter didn’t tolerate deserters, and someone of Maretus’ former rank would have a nasty homecoming. It wouldn’t surprise her if they kept him alive just to flog him and punish him until they felt he could be allowed to die. No, the dangers of Tevinter were much greater than could be expressed in a few short words.

Even his assurance that he would enjoy the extra time together, that he would want to come home with her, does little to temper the pain of losing him and hearing him say no when he would prefer to say yes. Hearing that he would want to come back, only to say no in order to stay alive, makes the pain worse. But it also strengthens her resolve and solidifies her plans. She is not so easily swayed, and as long as his only problem with returning is fear of death than there is hope yet. There are ways around all things if one is careful and cunning enough. Everyone has a price or a point of weakness to be used as leverage. It was Tevinter, and when it came to pushing her own agenda there was little Vanora would not do. If it meant protecting Maretus and keeping him by her side then there was nothing that would stop her. If he was willing to come, willing to trust that she could bring him home and keep him safe, then she would do everything within her power to do so.

**_"_** So that is your only objection, that they would have you killed the moment you crossed the border? ** _”_**

It sounds silly when she says it, her eyes locked on his, searching his face as he searches her own. Pursing her lips she slides her hand down, no longer cradling her arm in his, and laces her fingers through his.

**_“_** I may have neglected to mention that I have been in contact with more than just my spies. Since our business with Septimus was concluded, at least when we thought it was done with, I got in contact with several more people. Old friends, allies, and people who know much but are paid no attention by my kin. ** _”_**

Her eyes drop away from his as she takes a breath, staring at the ground for a moment before looking back up at him.

**_"_** Between countless letters to and from my contacts, I believe I have found a way for you to return and remain in Tevinter unharmed. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

He sees the pain in her eyes, flicker across her face, if only momentarily. She keeps up a good front, but he can tell that his answer hurts her. What did she expect, though? He was a deserter, and not from a simple legionnaire position, but one of considerable power. Not for the first time since meeting her, he wonders if he hadn’t even left, and she hadn’t, if their paths wouldn’t have crossed anyway, if their fates wouldn’t have become as tied in one another as they seem to be now. A foolish notion, considering they were both far and away different people than they had been a decade ago in Tevinter–both readily admitted to that fact, even. But it would have made things so much easier than… whatever this is.

Something kin to a smile, but harsher and without any true amusement, twists his mouth at her question. “You have to admit that’s a reasonable objection to have. I may not even have to cross the border for them to capture me–and it’s… it’s not truly the death that I fear, but of everything that would come before it.” She may not know the protocol–and he shudders internally at the cold, emotionless word for it–for deserters, but being the Legator Legarem, he knew. He knew all the different procedures for the different ranks, the length of time away. Maretus knew he would not die for weeks, months if they were good at their jobs. 

Her fingers snap him out of his macabre thoughts, leaving his arm to entwine with his, and his lips part, a question already forming behind them, only to be silence again by her words.

Once more she renders him speechless. For her to know for certain a way for him to return unharmed, she would have had to spend much time and energy and resources. He has no idea what she had to do to believe she achieved such a thing, but he is sure that it is more than likely substantial. For her to go to such lengths, and for him…

Surely, she wouldn’t tell him such a thing if she wasn’t absolutely certain. This is Vanora, and she is as thorough as he when it comes to doing something she’s set her mind to. She wouldn’t even have brought up the notion if she were not completely sure that it was possible. His breath catches and he feels his heart back up in his throat and ears again, and he has to close his eyes against a sudden rush. When he opens them, she’s brought her gaze back up to find his.

“You…” He can’t seem to force his voice to be more than a hushed sound, disbelief threaded thickly throughout. “You would ensure such a thing? For me?”  


* * *

Standing still as stone she waits, fingers laced through his, eyes fixed on his face as he processes what she’s said. For those few seconds, the only thing that matters is the look on his face when he finally opens his eyes. It can’t have been more than three heartbeats but somehow it feels much longer, as did many things of great importance when all that was left to do was wait.

When he finally does open his eyes she can’t read his face, for there is no clear expression on it. From what she can tell it is a mixture of many things, but the only element she cares to focus on is the hint of hope she can see in his eyes. He knows her better than anyone in all of Thedas, and so he must know that she does not joke. Especially not about something so important as his safe return home. 

His reply is cut off at the first word and she thinks that maybe he’ll ask if she’s being serious. Not necessarily because he honestly thinks that she would joke about it but as a knee-jerk reaction to such a shocking statement. It wasn’t every day that someone promised a safe return to an unforgiving country keen on torturing someone to death. When he manages to get the rest of his reply out it takes her a second to realize he isn’t shutting her down or doubting her sincerity at all. She is certain that it is hope in his eyes, the faint light of it wavering in the light, still unsure whether or not it might stay for longer than a fleeting moment.

Unable to help herself she smiles at him,  ** _“_** Of course I would, Maretus. You know me better than anyone else in the world, and as I said, I am selfish and would very much like you to stay with me. ** _”_**

Trailing off her smile remains intact,  ** _“_** But, perhaps, more importantly, you are very dear to me, and I would like to see you happy. Tevinter is not perfect, but at the very least you deserve to be able to choose whether you stay or leave after returning me home. Hopefully, I shall be able to convince you to stay, even if only for a while…you did say you wanted to see the gardens and the library. ** _”_**

Her heart beats quick and heavy in her chest, her stomach fluttering with nerves. Would he accept her offer of a safe return and entrust his life with her? It is more to ask than she can quite fathom. Although she hopes so, she quietly reminds herself that there is always the possibility he will choose to escort her only so far. Perhaps the promise of true freedom, of gardens and libraries and time to simply  _be_  will convince him to come. Maybe not to stay forever, but at least a while longer and with the choice to return when he wants. Then they will not be barred forever from one another, forced to meet halfway in order to protect his life.

* * *

 

The possibility, the hope, to be able to return home–with Vanora. Before he’d met her, he would have been perfectly content to live the rest of his days far and away from Tevinter, even if it meant he’d never feel quite completely warm down to his bones again. Even after he’d first met her, he would have not wished to go back. But now, knowing who and what she is and having those things alter his entire worldview from what it was for a long time, to what it is forming into now… he wanted to go wherever she went. And if that meant back to Tevinter, then that was where he wanted to go.  


He never would have thought he would go back, not in all the ten years he was away. If someone had asked him if he’d buried that life long ago, he would have answered them without hesitation. But so many things this past year turned his world upside-down–in both good and bad ways–and now he finds himself  _hopeful_  about going back. Never would he have imagined it to be so.

There had to be a catch, though. Nothing ever came for free, he knows this well. Even as good-intentioned as Vanora is, there must be some price he has to pay. He’s sure she’s paid her dues in order to secure such a thing, probably more than he could ever guess, but in his bones he knows there is something he must do, as well. Depending on what it is, he will pay it gladly, but he has to know what the price for such freedom is, first.

“What are the conditions?” he asks, finally. In truth, he wants to know every detail of how this came to be–what strings were pulled, who was in power that would agree to such a thing, what Vanora had to do or promise in order to accomplish it. But all those questions, however they burn in his mouth, remain unasked for the time being. First he has to know his blood price.  


* * *

It was a lot to process in such a short period of time, but Maretus is handling it admirably. Probably thanks to all his logic and level-headedness. She could count the number of time she’d seen him particularly emotional on one hand. The near death experience down the mountain, the nasty confrontation with the men when they’d reached the bottom, when he’d found out who she really was, and the other night when they were drunk and more honest with one another than usual.

Although he isn’t weeping with emotion she can tell that he’s at least a little overcome by it all. After all, she’d just promised him what might amount to a new life returned home. The look on his face and the tone of his voice, surprised and disbelieving, now shifting towards suspicion, suggested that he was indeed more affected by it than he necessarily appeared.

So when he asks what the conditions are Vanora can only smile. Always the logical one, looking for every detail that mattered. For someone who was so opposed to altus, or had been his whole life, Maretus was closer in nature to them then he realized. Any altus worth their power treated politics the exact same way commanders treated war–careful calculations based on every shred of information gathered.

With the whole situation looking up, at least at the moment, Vanora is tempted to tease him. She could say that he would have to do some great labors to prove his worth or, more likely, tolerate indentured servitude for a period of time. But that was cruel, and the latter was a little too close to reality to bother.

**_“_** Well, when I said I hoped to convince you to stay longer, that wouldn’t be entirely necessary, ** _”_**  she begins, pursing her lips together,  ** _“_** You could return safely,  _but_  you would be required to be working in service to me. I thought a bodyguard would be most appropriate, and most believable. ** _”_**

A moment later she adds in hastily,  ** _“_** This isn’t slavery, although it might sound like it right off the bat. You would be provided with room and board, all your clothes and other necessities would be paid for, and you’d be given a stipend as well. Though the latter will be kept between the two of us. Honestly, you would be more a guest than anything else. Although you would have to come along whenever I left the house. But I’m sure we can work around that in some cases. ** _”_**

She’s talking a bit too fast, trying to cram in all her thoughts and reassurances, hoping she hasn’t forgotten anything. Drawing away from him slightly, far enough that she can see him clearly without taking her hand from his, she smiles faintly,  ** _“_** Give it a little time, let me get my feet solidly beneath me again, and I have great confidence in my ability to ensure your freedom once released from my service. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

Well, she’s smiling when he asks what the conditions are, so they couldn’t be all  _that_  bad, he reasons. He couldn’t fathom what they could be–all he had ever been familiar with were the punishments, not mitigation. But, pending having to murder or torture someone as his payment, Maretus is more than willing to seriously consider whatever he might have to do.

When she tells him all he would have to do would work in her service as a guard, he almost laughs out loud. As she continues, her words pouring out more and more quickly, he can tell that she is worried he’d be adverse to the notion, when he is anything but. As far as conditions go, this one was as easy to him as breathing by now.

“That is an entirely appropriate position, and one I accept gladly. You needn’t worry,” he adds. “I’m not ashamed to work for my penance in this. I would be honored to be in your service.“

Even as she draws back to watch him, so he watches her as well, studying her face and body language, and noting how tense she is. She must have been worried he would turn her offer down. Maretus feels he would have been a fool to do so. Even so, it’s hard to believe that she has been able to arrange for a chance for him to live in Tevinter again. Sure, he would never achieve the honors or position he had before, but he would have thought  _any_  life for him again in Tevinter was forfeit.

Shaking his head a little, he lets out a soft noise that seems close enough to a chuckle to count as one. "Forgive me–I don’t disbelieve you, that you have done all this and secured my life, but it’s all… it’s something I never thought possible. I never expected to be afforded the opportunity to see home again, to see the gardens you told me of, or peruse your library. It–it’s a lot to wrap my head around.”

If he is being absolutely honest with himself, he isn’t sure he believes all of it. He  _wants_  to, of course, and he doesn’t think Vanora would lie to him. But he can’t help but feel there’s something he’s missing, something they’re missing that is vital, or that everything will backfire when he’s sighted at the border, or an ambush will be lying in wait for him–and possibly for her, for attempting to aid him–at her home. He wouldn’t be able to bear that burden.

At such serious thoughts, his face falls grave. “I also worry,” he begins cautiously, wanting to voice the concerns in his mind to her, “that something will backfire. I can’t say I was of such extreme import that someone would want to lay down a trap for me after so many years, but I wouldn’t want you to be caught up in a snare laid to capture me upon my arrival back in Tevinter.” His hand tightens around hers a bit more. “It’s hard to express that I  _do_  believe you have done this thing, but still doubt its truth. I mean you no insult, I hope you understand that.”  


* * *

Acceptance. Even if there are conditions or reservations she has gotten the basic level of approval from him and she exhales slowly in relief. Her muscles, tightening without her notice as she spoke, slowly relax as she waits for him to speak. He might claim to be honored, and knowing Maretus he very well might be in earnest when he says that, but it is still a lot to take on faith. Trust was a good starting point, but with a long, torturous death awaiting him should this fall through Vanora cannot begrudge him his reservations. She’d be more than hesitant if she knew that her death would take more than a few weeks to come. 

So when Maretus admits that he isn’t entirely sure what to think about it Vanora isn’t surprised. She tucks her arm back against him, giving him a gentle push so they could start walking again. The guards would be circling around soon, and two people standing still in the shadows were bound to draw attention. They walk at a sluggish pace, Vanora nodding as Maretus explains what’s going on in his head. If it had been a straightforward yes without any questions or concerns Vanora would have certainly been concerned, even if it would make this all the easier.

**_“_** Of course, it is no small thing, and doubtlessly it is quite a lot to wrap your head around in one short conversation. It was hard for me to wrap my head around it when everything came together, and it isn’t my life on the line. So take however much time you need to think it over, I won’t be leaving terribly soon, and I would prefer you be confident in your answer. ** _”_**

Walking again she nods to herself, understanding his concerns and wishing they didn’t have to be thus. But the struggle and hardship of this would make the reward of having him home with her in Tevinter all the more satisfying.

**_“_** It is a reasonable thing to worry about, but by the time we pass through Val Royeaux we shan’t be alone. There will be eyes and ears following to make sure nothing so dastardly might happen. And should a trap somehow slip by them then so be it–it is a risk I am willing to take. But do remember, nobody knows I will be returning home, and by the time they do it will be too late for them to do much about it. It would be foolish and reckless to try and have me assassinated; there will be too much gossip and drama to do so without arousing suspicion. ** _”_**

Smirking at the idea of someone trying to do so, at someone daring to cross her when she would be so close to home, Vanora looks back up to Maretus.

**_“_** Take a few days to think about it. Let it all process and look at it with clear, rested eyes. I don’t want you making any decisions you’ll regret later. My selfishness can be put aside if it means your happiness and safety. ** _”_**

And she realizes as she says it, that she has done so without thinking. Never before in her life has she been willing to put someone else’s interests before her own when it came to those outside of her medical care. Vanora does want him to be happy, more than she dared to admit, and if it meant keeping him away from her until she had time to visit him then so be it. Better to find a way to see him now and again then to lose him to death or some sort of resentment. No, she wanted him to make a clear-headed decision, and if it meant that she would suffer discomfort and hurt then so be it.  


* * *

As she slips her arm more tightly through his, he draws his arm toward his body so they are walking closer as they talk. One hand of his absently reaches over to cover hers, the familiar cool of her fingers beneath his a small comfort in the face of so many sudden decisions to weigh.

He frowns to himself as she speaks. “That’s the thing I’m worried about,” he points out when she mentions Val Royeaux. “We won’t be alone. You’ve been in contact with people you trust, I don’t doubt that, but who’s to say those messages haven’t been intercepted? Who’s to say a whole host of people won’t know exactly where you’ll be?”

The fingers atop hers lightly rub her hand. “Your people will be watching us as we move up through Orlais, but by the same token there could be others we don’t know about watching, as well. And there’s no telling that they wouldn’t know who either of us are. I might be captured before we even set foot in Nevarra.”

At her suggestion that he take time to let everything process and give her an answer in a few days, however, makes him surprisingly angry. He doesn’t pull away from her, but gives her a quick, sharp glance. As is usual, the minor flare of indignation makes him cooler, more refined in speech. This is what made him dangerous in the Legion–those who tried to upset him only made him calculate more. Maretus knows Vanora isn’t working against him, and really only has his best interests at heart, but it felt a little condescending despite what he knows of her, for her to think he needed more time to make a decision he knew he’d make from the moment she first asked him.

“While I appreciate the show of understanding, I assure you, Vanora, that I am quite clear-headed right now. Don’t misunderstand my hesitation and difficulty in believing with absolution the safety of my life with uncertainty.” His voice is very even and controlled. “I know you mean well, but I have already given you my answer, and a day, twenty days, will not change that.”

And in this moment, Maretus realizes that there are going to be some difficult conversations in their future at some point–even beyond the ones they were already skirting their best around. With Vanora retaking her mantle as the heir to a powerful altus House, and Maretus–hopefully–going there with her, he will be surrounded by the very kinds of people that drove him from Tevinter in the first place. He likes Vanora, he respects and trusts her, and he has made peace, for the most part he feels, with the fact that she is an altus.

But, he realizes as he takes a moment to consider the source of his indignation, that he already is feeling ghosts of the same class and social pressures. This is going to be difficult and potentially volatile ground to tread with her, especially since his condition for keeping his life intact in Tevinter, with her, is to be working for her.

With this realization, he releases a breath. “Vanora, if this all turns out to be real, and true, and we make it back to your House in Tevinter and you pick up your old life and I start a new one… we’re going to have to be careful.” His eyes search her face, trying to find a way to explain himself to her. “Here, we are equals. I’m not just a soporati, and you’re not the heir to a powerful altus House. But, back in Tevinter…” Maretus stops, pressing his lips together in a frown and swallowing back the acrid taste of dread trying to creep up from his chest. “I will be working for you, which I will happily do in exchange for my life, to stay with you, but I will only be a soporati there again–even worse, one who deserted and threw away his life, now only still breathing by the power you and your name carry. I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to be just a soporati in the presence of altus again.”

Now he does stop them again, and draws his arm from her only to grasp her upper arms in both his hands, thumbs pressing into her biceps, and turns her to face him fully. There is a sliver of fear hitching in his voice now, and the slightest look of desperation to his eyes.

“Vanora, you  _must_  understand,” he tells her in a low, intense voice, “this is more important than my life. I will not go back to feeling trapped again, no matter how much I’d want to stay with you.”


	8. Chapter 8

**viii.**

For the briefest moment, with his hand covering hers, she can relax and forget the seriousness of this all. A second passes where she can enjoy the feeling before it disappears into the situation at hand. She sighs as he begins down his line of thought, pointing out all the possible ways it can go wrong, and she has to keep herself from rolling her eyes. Of course, there are a hundred ways this could backfire and go horribly wrong, but even if he stayed with the Inquisition and she returned with someone else there were still a litany of things that could go wrong. People were still in play to ensure her safe return, and they were all equally capable of betrayal or accidentally causing some damage. To err is human. It doesn’t seem like something worth arguing or pointing out. No matter what there’s danger involved. There is no guarantee they’ll even make it through Orlais. They could very well get murdered long before they reached Nevarra.

Her insistence that he make a rational thought, particularly when the more nuanced details of the plan are taken into consideration, does not go over well. Brows raising slightly at the sharp look directed at her. He’s upset by what she’s said. Perhaps he’s offended by the suggestion that he wasn’t capable of clear thought right now. When he speaks she bites back the urge to sigh and rub her eyes. She imagines that he knows she doesn’t mean to be rude or condescending, but whatever damage her words might have caused is dealt now. With everything out in the open she waits for him to speak next, lips pursed, for him to air out whatever other issues he doubtlessly has with this situation. If his only concern is that they might be ambushed, then he wouldn’t look so uncomfortable and lost in thought.

_Here, we are equals._

It feels as though a stone has been dropped into her stomach and she is sure she knows where he is about to go with this line of thought. Here they are indeed equals, members of the Inquisition with a little bit of influence over the soldiers and healers respectively. But when they got back the difference between them might as well be the same as the difference between the Empress of Orlais and a footsoldier. It makes her gut twist to be reminded so suddenly of the stark contrast between their roles here and in Tevinter. So engrossed in the planning of this, she had barely given thought to what it would be like after they’d gotten him there. Beyond laying down the ground rules for what his work would be, and emphasizing as much as she could that he would in no way be a slave or anything like one, she hadn’t paid attention to what the dynamic change would be like for him. They would go from being equals to something far different, and it makes her uncomfortable trying to fathom what it would feel like. 

Just because they would still be equals in her eyes does not mean that Maretus would feel the same way, or that their interactions would be quite the same ever again. Only time would be able to tell if they could find a balance between whatever facade they would put up for the world and their genuine dynamics. For Vanora it was less of an issue–she had been much more open with Felix and Julia, even some of the other slaves to an extent, but from the outside nobody would be able to tell. Could Maretus do that? Change the way he behaved at the flip of a switch and continue to remember that what happens outside the estate is just an act? Being able to handle it long term would be a problem, especially when the act would have to perfectly mimic an alternate reality where they really weren’t equals.

Eyes widening as he turns her to face him, his hands wrapped around her upper arms, she swallows down the lump that’s formed in her throat. How could she assure him that she would rather die than have him feel thus? There weren’t enough words in the world to promise him that such a thing would never happen, and even if there were enough words meant nothing. Actions had to speak for her, and there was no way to truly do that until they’d reached Tevinter. She opens her mouth, trying to force out some reply that will sound certain and confident, but then closes it and frowns. Looking at him, her eyebrows knitted together, she shakes her head. The set of his face is serious, something almost desperate in his tone and eyes, and she knows that this is his ultimatum. He could get over the threat of death or the failure of the plan, but being trapped in his so called ‘freedom’ would be the end of it. Even talking about it sets him on edge and she wishes desperately that there was a simple answer to this, to all of this.

**_“_** I cannot make promises that there is no chance of you feeling trapped or lesser–I am not you, and I cannot predict every situation we will ever face. All I can do is tell you that you and I will forever be equals in my eyes, and, Maker forbid, you ever do feel that you are trapped there I’ll do whatever needed to have you safely released from Tevinter. I would rather drink that poisoned tea of Leah’s then have you feel lesser and trapped by society ** _”_**

Sighing, she shakes her head,  ** _“_** Danger on the road is a far cry from this. It certainly makes me reconsider the plan entirely. All this planning and work amounts to nothing if you end up worse than you were before you left Tevinter. Perhaps it is not such a good idea after all… ** _”_**

Grimacing, she trails off, wondering if it’s worth the risk. This whole plan is born of complete selfishness and her fear of losing him completely. But to see it through successfully only for him to begin resenting her, hating her even, is more than she could easily tolerate. It would be a trial   
much greater than surviving her 10 years alone on the road.  


* * *

Though she does not seem to be convinced that her words would help assuage his worries, they do, in fact. Not wholly, not entirely, but enough for him to feel the calm seep back and overpower the knee-jerk urge to run. He empirically knows she feels this way, but it is immeasurable to hear her actually  _say_  the words.

The impulse to draw her into his arms, to hold her, is almost overwhelming, but instead he nods firmly, squeezes her arms, and then lets his hands fall.

“Hearing you say that… makes me feel more secure. I, too, can’t promise anything, but…” Maretus takes a moment to look up at the sky, drawing a breath and then releasing it again, taking more of the fear along with it, before lowering his gaze to hers again. “I will go with you,” he reaffirms to her.

Maretus does not know how he will do it, or even what he will need to do, but he knows that it will not be easy. His desire to be free wars already with his desire to be around Vanora, and there is a small voice in the back of his mind that tells him he’s already given up some of his freedom, already tethered himself again in a way to someone else. There are hidden pitfalls and snares meant to entangle along the path of unpacking what that notion truly meant, and now there is even more beyond that to deal with.

Vanora grimaces, shakes her head, wondering now if was such a wise decision, and Maretus feels responsible for making her doubt. He reaches for her hand again, taking it between his own, partly to warm it and partly because now that they’ve suddenly reached a different level of physical comfort with one another after waking up together some few mornings ago, he can’t seem to stop wanting to touch her in some small way.

“Don’t rethink this,” he says to her. “You must go back, and not only am I the most logical and pragmatic choice of escort, but… I would very much like to go with you.” He pauses, then adds, “Besides, I cannot pass up the opportunity to peruse such a library as you described to me, now can I?”  
__

Gradually she relaxes, muscles that had been tight with anticipation slowly relaxing into their resting state. The uncertainty lingers, even with his decision that despite all the risk he will still accompany her to Tevinter. Second guessing isn’t something Vanora is accustomed to, she’s always made decisions that were carefully thought out, but as well planned as this plan is she’s already worried that it isn’t the best decision.

His hands drop from her arms, the warm spots that they had covered immediately disappearing with a blast of cold air from a forceful burst of wind. A shudder runs down her spine and, instinctively, she crosses her arms over her chest, drawing her cloak tighter around her. Now that she doesn’t have her plan to explain and all that she’ll say taking up her mind Vanora notices the cold more than she had when they left the tavern. But she’ll only have to deal with it a while longer. Sooner, rather than later, they would be off for the sun and sand of the North, leaving the mountains and Skyhold in their wake and the Inquisition along with it.

Vanora frowns slightly, the gesture creating little wrinkles in her forehead and between her eyebrows. Logic and pragmatism weren’t enough to warrant him risking misery of all sorts. The pause draws out a final admission, perhaps more of an assurance for either or the both of them, that Maretus has made up his mind and, more importantly,  _wants_  to come. With everything coming to light, not the least of which the dangers of the inevitable shift in social dynamic, Vanora would have tolerated nothing less than his full acceptance. Any lingering doubts large enough to make him pause too long, and she would find another way. It is simply good practice to hope for the best and plan for the worst. 

Another gust of wind deepens the frown on her face and she huffs out in annoyance. Stepping beside Maretus, their shoulders touching, she reaches out for his arm again, wrapping hers around it. Ever since that morning together there seem to be fewer barriers between them, most notably their general standoffishness in regards to physical contact. Vanora is not at all averse to it, and, in fact, rather enjoys it. Eying Maretus from the side of her eyes she smiles,  ** _“_** No, you really can’t. It will be well worth the trip to see it, and you’ll have access to it at all times. You might even turn out to be better read than I am. ** _”_**

Taking a step forward, drawing Maretus along with her in the direction of the barracks, her smile fades and gives way to a more pensive, serious expression. Her words are quiet, aimed so that even if there was anyone to hear, only Maretus would be able to understand.

**_“_** Thank you, Maretus. ** _”  
_**

* * *

****

His words seem to have finally struck the right chord in assuring her that, despite the hardships they will experience even if everything else that could go wrong along the way goes as precisely as they hope, he wants and intends to accompany her. Let them first overcome the difficulties of  _getting_  to Tevinter first, and then tackle everything else as they needed to. Figuring out personal relationships and suddenly changed social dynamics were all well and good, but worthless to worry about if they don’t ever make it there in the first place.

A sudden strong wind cuts through the both of them, and even Maretus has to work to suppress a shiver. It seems to blow her against him, though he knows she intentionally moved toward him rather than being subject to the wind. He doesn’t mind, though, and welcomes her familiar warmth against her side. It almost feels normal, now, to tuck her hands against him, beneath one of his, sharing his warmth with her even if he feels cold himself.

At her smile, her suggestion that he might turn out better read than she, he returns it, small lines creasing with fondness at the corners of his eyes.

“I think that might depend on subject matter. Overall, I’m not sure I’d even compare to someone born and raised altus, reading and studying since they were young. But, I’m not certain you’d be able to keep up with military readings,” he teases her.

The direction she veers them in surprises him a little. For a moment his heart speeds up a bit, a part of him instantly wondering if she were coming back to the barracks with him. It only takes an instant for that thought to register before he immediately dismisses it. A ridiculous notion–there was no reason for it. The healer tower where she lived would be far more frequented than his quarters at the end of the barracks, and a much better place to conclude a private conversation. As they walked, he keeps his voice low, even bending a little to lean his head closer to hers to talk more easily.

“When do you plan to leave? We will need to tell the War Council something, if not the truth, as to why we must go. I imagine you’ve already thought of something?”

* * *

 

Curled happily against Maretus’ side Vanora can finally indulge in some much-desired relief. The conversation to set things in motion, a challenge as great as she had expected it, was at the very least easing into something much less tense. They have navigated through the hardest part, and now all that is left is to handle the details of their preparations and departure. She has, predictably, already compiled a brief list of the basic necessities, plus a list of medicine and supplies to handle any injuries on the road should they occur.   


Still smiling to herself she nods in agreement with Maretus’ observation on how ‘well read’ could be very different depending on the subject. He did have a point, although with some time on his hand and no troops to train she has no doubts he’ll take well to the library. After all, he didn’t seem the sort to enjoy sitting idle. At least a book would keep his mind alert.

**_"_** You certainly beat me in the military department. I learned quite a lot of history, but we never went into the military issues themselves, always the politics around them, ** _”_** she says, smirking slightly,  ** _“_** I’m sure you’re shocked to hear that. I imagine I beat you on topics of magic or botany, but in non-fiction who knows? Anyway, you’ll have much more time to read when we’re home. ** _”_**

She leaves out the bit about him having more time than her, figuring that it would be an unnecessary reminder that she would be much busier with meetings and society to handle. He would come along for much of it, of course, but when they were home and alone there would be plenty of time that he would have free while she dealt with whatever had crossed her desk while she was gone. With any luck, they would still have plenty of time together beyond the formal setting of the Tiberius estate.

When Maretus leans down towards her, voice dropping low once more, Vanora’s smile fades slightly as she listens to what he says, picking out his words as the wind blows by, more gently than before. Of course, with the decision made and the mutual understanding that their departure would be sooner rather than later, Maretus would immediately go to planning their next move. It was only logical, after all. Stifling a smile she nods.

**_“_** The sooner the better for our departure time. A week would be quite sufficient I believe. As for an excuse, I have thought of it, but I am not quite decided. Since nobody here knows of my family it seemed plausible to say I had finally gotten word of them settling safely in Orlais, though my father was in poor health from everything, and that I had to see to them. You coming with would be entirely practical. It isn’t as though our closeness is a well-kept secret, and it is only logical to find a well-suited companion for such a long journey. ** _”_**

Trailing off she stares off into the distance, turning over the other option in her head as she speaks,  ** _“_** But part of me finds revealing the truth somewhat appealing. Tear off the mask and reveal what’s beneath it. Not to mention the satisfaction of shocking everyone. I would have no lies to keep up here, but I also fear that it might cause us trouble in the long term. Gossip spreads, and it’s dangerous. With how blanketed the South is with Inquisition troops who knows who might overhear it as it moves through the ranks? So, for now, I think we shall stick with the lie. I can always send word back later, perhaps offering aid if there is still need for it. ** _”_**

Looking over to Maretus once more she smiles faintly. For once the thought of leaving the Inquisition doesn’t come with the twinge of dread it once did. It had all started because of Maretus, she wasn’t blind to that, but it was a relief nonetheless to have it handled for the time being. With one conversation behind them, their plan set into motion, they had only to cross all of Thedas to arrive at their destination. Who knew what might await them between Skyhold and home? Whatever they came across, Vanora is confident that they would be able to handle it. Between the two of them, they were a more-than-capable team, and Vanora looked forward to the journey with him.


End file.
